Brothers in Arms
by Arty Thrip - Alpha 04
Summary: When an Argonian beggar is stumbled upon by the Hero of Kvatch, neither of their lives will ever be the same again. Reviews appreciated; concrit needed. Contains Main Quest, Dark Brotherhood and Mages Guild
1. Accidents Happen

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_Author Note: Once again we start from the start. What is this now, take 3? It needs it. I'm going through properly this time and editing EVERY chapter. Anonymous flamer on chapter 28 brought me back down to the reality that my writing style is awful. Oh well, practice makes perfect._

**_Quote: Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends - John 15 - The Bible_**

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Chapter 1

In Bruma, high on the Jerall Mountains near the border with Skyrim, the long-term presence of an Argonian among the innumerable Nords was always highly unusual. Biologically Nords were well adapted to the cold conditions due to their ancestors in Skyrim and Solstheim while Argonians were more well-suited to the tropical forests of Black Marsh further to the south.

This particular Argonian was even more unusual, it seemed, due to his secretive past life and the indisputable fact that his name was among the least Argonian ones that had ever been uttered, along with the fact that he held employment with the Bosmer Baenlin in an almost secretive pact maintained only on the pretences of mutual advantage. These particular advantages were not only felt by employer and employee, but also by the Bruma Mages Guild who now breathed a sigh of relief that they would not have to repatch their roof for the third time in a month following some freak spell-backfiring incident.

Previously a sailor, a bard and eventually a beggar, the Argonian enjoyed a measly pay for the labours his employer forced him to partake. The Bosmer already had a Nord manservant by the name of Gromm, so the extra servant was given only the most mundane tasks to fetch a book or tidy the cellar which would eventually end up doubling as his makeshift home. Accepting the shelter of the cellar however would eventually cause the poor Argonian to receive even less pay than the peanuts he already got, but for the moment he was simply making do with what we being presented to him.

After being forced off his ship, the Serpents Wake, by the other crewmembers for being 'bad luck', he had been taken in by the author Quill-Weave for a short time before setting off to make his fortune. During his short time as a bard the Argonian had travelled from town to town and eventually to Bruma to make his fortune, only to be robbed while staying in Olav's Tap and Tack by someone who he suspected was almost undoubtably a Nord member of the Thieves Guild, most likely the lazy but equally shifty Nord who took up almost permanent residency with Olav and was very rarely seen out of his room at any time day or night.

Then penniless, the Argonian was forced to take up begging and slept inside the Chapel of Talos to stop himself from freezing to death until he was kicked out by an overzealous high-and-mighty primate who thought that the benevolent gods would never shelter a helpless beggar until Oblivion froze over, dragons filled the sky and Secunda turned neon purple. That night he had almost frozen to death due to his cold-blooded heritage and the particularly treacherous conditions in the Jerall Mountains at that time of year.

He was taken in by the Bruma Guild of Mages for a short time, cared for by the Imperial alchemist Selena Orania and the intensely annoying Breton Jeanne Frasoric. That was until he started blowing holes in the roof, being attacked by his own summoned daedra and very nearly managed to cost Jeanne a finger, though Volanaro and J'skar had found this among the most amusing pranks that they had never dared try and had thanked him for the priceless inspiration.

Two days later he was taken in by Baenlin following Jeanne's underhand recommendation.

The Argonian despised his position with the Bosmer and hated all Nords following his being robbed. If he had had anywhere else to go he would have left and often found himself wishing that the lazy Wood Elf would one day receive his just desserts by perhaps being crushed by the unstable looking minotaurs head that hung precariously over the chair he seemed to spend most of the day lounging in.

Turner - who had been named by a slightly tipsy Nord woman but seemed to be called all manner of names by people who assumed that it was short for something like Turns-A-Corner or Turner-of-Wheels or Turner-Corner - could feel the storms blowing in from the Jerall Mountains by the drastic drop of temperature in his basement home and pulled the blanket more tightly around his chin as he attempted to get an early night in preparation for being summoned by his master at a ridiculously early time in the morning. He was not a slave as his parents had been, but he seemed to be treated about as well as one. He shivered violently and cursed everybody who had ever short-changed or robbed him for not leaving him with enough money to at least buy some warmer clothes now that he really needed to.

Five additional blankets later and the dozing Argonian was awoken by the sound of scraping against the ice-covered trapdoor leading down into his makeshift home. It was an unusual sound and not welcome to his ears in any way, firstly because the trapdoor was most definitely frozen solid and used my nobody, and secondly because the door upstairs was used more readily as it had access from the street, whereas the cellar door was accessible only from the secluded location around the back of the wooden building.

Quickly alert, he bundled the blankets under the low wooden bed and hid in plain sight behind the wine racks that Baenlin used so very rarely. Hopefully the intruder would not use any kind of detect life enchantment and was not particularly observant.

His mind racing, he remembered a Black Horse Courier he had read perhaps a week earlier detailing the murder of a pirate aboard his ship the Marie Elena and the culprit escaping easily despite the numerous witnesses. It had obviously been the work of some heinously skillful assassin and for a moment the Argonian feared that they might have been sent after him this time. But nobody knew his location. And who would murder a beggar anyway?

After a sound very much like chiselling the trapdoor swung upwards and a sleek figure garbed entirely in black descended through it effortlessly, sillhoueted sinisterly against the white snow covering the ground outside and beginning to flutter inside. The stranger turned and closed the hatch silently, their eyes fixed only on the door to the main house and not on the cowering Argonian in the corner behind the wine rack.

As the intruder passed him Turner was suddenly aware of the fact that they were female, some form of mer - too short to be an Imperial or Nord and too tall to be a Breton, with no tail, fur or scales - and obviously here on business due to the dagger at her hip and longsword at her back. Despite the extra weight of the weapons she moved silently and gracefully, a hood shielding her face and sporting some form of leather armour that Turner had never seen before and instantly coveted, ignoring the blatant black handprint emblazened upon the shoulder pad.

He hid himself with an invisibility spell that he had learnt during his time at the Mages Guild, one of the few spell that he had ever had much success with, partly because it only had two possible outcomes, failure or success.

Following after her was an interesting experience as his sneaking skill was far from perfect and his footfall was far from silent especially while ascending the old wooden stairs that creaked with every step anyway. Turner half expected Gromm to come charging around the corner to see what the noise was about while wielding his huge axe and angry enough to frighten Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction, himself.

The intruder cursed under her breath when she reached the top of the stairs but too quietly for Turner to discern a regional accent, however luckily for him she looked straight through his invisible form and rounded the corner into Gromm's bedroom - another thing Turner thought was highly unfair about his employment.

Turner glanced over the railing to the scene below and began to wonder exactly what the intruder might want in Gromm's room. _Hopefully_, he thought, _to kill the detestable Nord before it's too late_.

On the ground floor Baenlin relaxed in a wooden chair beneath a stuffed Minotaur head, a trophy from his younger more active days apparently, but probably just bought from a market in Valenwood for around 200 gold. Nearby Gromm sat faithfully, more relaxed than usual because his master had done this exact thing for many years and nothing bad had yet happened to him in his career of service. Turner had always wondered where a useless layabout like Baenlin had ever found enough money to retire and it seemed to run in the family, from what he'd seen of Baenlin's greedy nephew Caenlin who made it quite clear that he was just waiting for his dear old uncle to die so he could inherit his estate.

All Bosmer and Nords were thoroughly detestable beings.

Following the armour clad and hooded individual into Gromm's room only to met with the disgusting smell of _Nord_, Turner was immediately aware that the intruder had disappeared, apparently into the crawlspace adjacent to the bedroom where the Argonian had been forced to sleep in on just one occasion before vowing to never be caught dead anywhere near there ever again. Being defeated by a wooden door was the stupid concept that Turner found himself facing as he sunk onto Gromm's bed - which was decidedly more comfortable than his own - and waited with his head in his hands for the intruder to leave the crawlspace for so long that his weary golden eyes began to droop tiredly and he found himself fighting against his own senses to stay awake.

Turner was awakened with a start as a loud crashing sound filled the wooden house and the walls swayed with the impact accompanied with a splintering sound and a yelp. The surprise was so much that the Argonian very nearly forgot to renew his now faded invisibility spell before the door to the crawlspace slid open just wide enough for the mysterious intruder to slip out silently and close it firmly behind her. Thankfully he hadn't been spotted, but it was a close call.

It was now obvious to him that the intruder had not come to kill Gromm in his sleep, which made Turner's heart sink in his chest and he very nearly swore out loud, had he not forcibly bit his tongue to prevent that from happening he would surely have been discovered and most likely have been run through with one of those ominous looking blades carried by the intruder.

Or butchered by Gromm's war axe.

The intruder began to sneak out of the room and back towards the stairs in order to leave the way she'd come in apparently. Turner rose awkwardly and followed her, taking the opportunity to glance back over the balcony to see what the noise had been. It seemed at first glance as if the minotaur head had finally fallen from the wall and crashed to the floor loudly.

But underneath the minotaur head a pool of blood was forming and Turner felt a sudden urge to vomit at the sight. A small blue suede shoe attached to a small foot protruded from beneath the heavy decoration and was proof enough of the horrible consequences. It seemed as though fate had finally caught up with old Baenlin and he had been crushed to death by the ugly thing.

The Nord Gromm stood over the wreckage with his powerful axe drawn and a terrifying look of determination and bitter sadness written across his broad face. With a sudden pang of realisation it dawned on the Argonian that he was going to be the lead suspect in this case, especially considering that he made no effort to hide his disdain towards him employer and had often daydreamed about his demise in this exact fashion. Nevertheless, the death of his only source of income came as an awful shock as well but instead of staying and mourning - and probably being sliced to pieces by that evil looking axe - Turner decided to follow the mysterious intruder back through the cellar since she obviously knew what she was doing and she obviously had some kind of escape plan in her mind.

Turner followed the mer down the stairs with a series of squeaks that would hopefully also be taken to be the aftermath of the wind and the bad capentry. He had always wondered by rich old Baenlin had never invested in a better set of stairs, but then again the old man spent so much time either sleeping or sitting that he likely hadn't noticed and Gromm was just too polite to point it out. The wind however was not enough to stop the Argonian sending a prayer up to the gods that Gromm was not paying attention or was too loyal to his master even in death that he would not leave his body's side.

Of course that would have been a waste of time, since Oblivion had _not_ frozen over yet, dragons had _not_ filled the sky and Secunda was definitely _not_ neon purple.

Then again, Oblivion _Gates_ had opened up everywhere recently and the daedra from inside had not long destroyed the entire city of Kvatch before they had been saved by the 'Hero of Kvatch', a Dunmer female who it seemed that nobody could fully remember the face of but all knew that she had a sharper tongue than most and a bad attitude towards others. Apprently she'd also been there when the Emperor was murdered; Turner supposed she might have killed him herself if the rumours about her were all true.

The Argonian followed the intruder out of the cellar and into the freezing streets of Bruma wearing nothing more than a sack cloth shirt and pants wishing that he could have afforded warmer clothes even more now or had at least had the sense to grab a blanket from beneath his bed. Now though he had effectively incriminated himself in the murder by fleeing the scene and there was obviously no turning back.

The mer pulled a plain black cloak from one of the numerous pockets in her black armour and slung it around her shoulders for warmth, drawing it tight and casting a spell to warm herself up. Turner wished that he might have this novelty, but a warming spell cast by him could easily start a fire that would engulf the whole of Bruma in seconds which would result in a long tribunal and eventually he would be ordered to rot in the depths of the Imperial Prison until the end of time, or at least until Oblivion poured out and destroyed all of Tamriel which would likely be soon.

The fresh snow underfoot crunched under his bare feet as he followed the intruder through the back streets of Bruma in the direction of the South Gate and, presumably, freedom. The gods seemed to have other plans though as he slipped on a patch of icy ground and stumbled haphazardly onto the back of the cloak worn by the murderer. In an instant he felt his back impact the wall and a dagger dig sharply into his abdomen while fierce red eyes burned into his skull from beneath the black hood while all he could do was swallow, curse and pray - though what good that would do seemed to escape him as every time he did it almost certainly led him into more trouble than before.

"Watch where you're going, fool!" she snapped in an accent identifiable as from the east coast of Vvardenfell. She was a Dunmer and was perhaps in her early twenties, but he couldn't ascertain anything else from his disadvantaged position.

"I saw you in my master's house," he said in an Argonian drawl that was unfamiliar even to him. He had decided, in his wisdom, that it was either speak now or forever live in regret.

"Your master?" she questioned him threateningly, extracting her cloak from beneath his foot violently and bearing down on him with her small blade. "And who might your master be, pondscum?"

Now Turner really did regret speaking but there was nothing he could do about it short of turning back time at this moment. "The Bosmer Baenlin," he stuttered, watching the Dunmer's expression briefly change from anger to shock and back again.

The Dunmer smirked, raising her dagger to strike him dead. "You would have been better off confessing to the crime of killing your master than admitting to seeing me inside. When I'm done with you there won't be enough pieces for a proper burial anyway."

"By the Nine!" a voice quivered from behind the Dunmer, who didn't flinch in the slightest. "Murder! Murd-argh!" The voice had once belonged to a beggar from the streets of Bruma, an annoying Imperial who Turner had never wanted to know and now never would, for he had hit the nosey man with a rather powerful frost spell that he had never managed to perfect and killed him stone dead before he'd hit the snowy ground.

"Great," the Dunmer sighed angrily. "Just what I need!" Then she turned back to the Argonian she still held to the wall and growled: "Do exactly as I say. If you don't then I will kill you, cut your body into small pieces and then burn the pieces, understand?"

The helpless beggar nodded as she sheathed her blade and took him by the wrist to lead him through the streets and out of the gate. He was too lost in thought to pay attention to much of the journey and if he wasn't pumped full of adrenaline and scared out of his wits he would probably have sunk to the floor and gone completely cuckoo at the thought of actually having murdered someone, even accidentally. He was not a killer and he never would be, since he couldn't get the images of the dead beggar out of his brain. It had all happened so fast that he couldn't even remember saying the words to the spell, let alone casting it.

The Dunmer dragged him through the city gates and pointed defiantly at a paint horse that stood lamely in the stables. "Get on it, now!" she ordered him, and the tone of her voice showed how little she planned to be meddled with.

"But that's stealing!" he objected stupidly, then realised that he probably ought not to have questioned her orders if he enjoyed his life. Of course, as an afterthought his mind added unhelpfully: _you've just murdered someone and now you've got qualms about stealing a horse, what kind of screwed up fugitive are you?_

She wheeled around on him furiously and her dagger appeared in her hand in an instant. "Get on the horse, now," she repeated through gritted teeth as if strongly fighting the urge to slit his throat then and there. "For Sithis' sake, it's _my_ horse."

This information about it being her horse was somewhat doubtful, but he did as she had told him anyway, wondering who in Oblivion Sithis was and why in the name of Azura someone would curse at them. He watched the Dunmer storm into the stables and grab ahold of the nearest paint horse violently, leading the animal away towards the gate and mounting it fluidly. An Imperial man ran out of the small shack next to the paddock and began yelling at her about paying for the animal because it was stealing and otherwise he'd call the guard to arrest her.

In a flash of silver the man's head was severed from his shoulders and flung half way across the paddock leaving his body to gurgle fresh red blood into the frozen ground. Turner's heart skipped a beat as he watched and felt like vomiting for the second time in an hour at the sight of all the blood but he was snapped out of the blood induced trance by the Dunmer ordering him to follow her southwards away from the city, her blood covered sword slung over her shoulder and drying quickly.

After a full day of riding Turner felt significantly more confident that he might keep his head and plucked up the courage to ask her just where they were headed. The answer was blunt: "Cheydinhal." And the malice in her voice was unmistakable, though she didn't find the time to fix him in another death-like glare.

An hour had passed before she decided to speak again. "You may not be a Brother yet, but your murder back there - however sloppy - will have garnered the attention of my superiors and very soon they'll be paying you a little visit in order to... welcome you to the family." She chuckled almost sadistically and the Argonian began to fear that he might have been taken from Bruma by a madwoman. "Though your kind are pretty much useless as anything except slaves, I suppose that we should get to know each other before we become... _related_. So, I guess I should ask you your name, lizard, unless you plan to refuse the generous offer and be killed."

About a hundred false names must have occured to the Argonian in the seconds that followed before he decided that honesty might well be the best policy when dealing with a woman who would certainly make him pay for lying to her. "My name is Turner," he stuttered bleakly, trying not to see how she reacted and to avoid her eye contact completely.

"That's not an Argonian name..." the Dunmer muttered under her breath.

"Well if I had an Argonian name, or even a Black Marsh name, I would tell it to you and laugh as you failed to pronounce it," Turner snapped back. "Unfortunately for me I don't so I can't."

"A pathetic name for a pathetic lizard then," she smiled evilly, unperturbed by his sudden bout of attitude. "Nice to see a _little_ flare in there though, maybe you'll get somewhere if you don't manage to get yourself slaughtered by wild beasts before we arrive. Throughout Cyrodiil people know me by many names, but my Brothers and Sisters know me as Idari Mortha and you may call me by that name once you become _my Brother_. Unfortunately for you though, my Brothers and Sisters do not take kindly to any sort of failure, so you shall have to be extra diligent in order to stay breathing with all your blood _inside_ your body."

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_It's not good, I know. Any help with editing would be useful. **I NEED A BETA. PLEASE HELP.**_


	2. A Knife in The Dark

_Author Note: Here's the rewritten version of chapter 2. I think it's much better, but I need your help on this one. Reviews are always useful. I've worked on most of the things that DeusExfreak told me to work on, so it should be better. Anywho, for those of you who never read the 1st version, consider yourself lucky. I wanted to shoot myself by the time I noticed the 3rd continuity error and I just couldn't stomach to read the rest of it. No wonder I have so few readers. Ah well, much better now ~ARTY~_

_Note: Fixed a couple of spelling errors pointed out by Nachtrae 20/08/10_

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Chapter 2

Any patrolling guardsman on the road between Bruma and Cheydinhal would have been struck by the irregularity of the pair riding towards them on weary paint horses. The Argonian looked frankly horrified and his knuckles were bloody from obvious fighting; this sign, twinned with the deep scratches to his legs and chest, was proof enough of a fight with some kind of ravenous beast like a wolf or a bear, but his tattered cloth clothes showed a distinct lack of preparation for the journey. The other rider was smaller and more agile, a female dressed in black armour from head to toe with a hood pulled down so far over her face that it was a wonder that she could see out of it herself let alone anybody attempting to see in. Anybody paying any particular attention to her might have noticed the blue tinted skin of her face or the burning red eyes that portrayed her to be of Dunmeri heritage, but from a distance it was impossible to tell her race. At her hip was a shortsword that was made of either silver or steel with a slight smear of blood on it showing that it had recently been used in a fight and most likely wiped on the grass the remove the excess blood.

Any patrolling guardsman knew well not to pry.

Idari Mortha kicked her stolen paint horse roughly, attempting to spur the thing to move even a little faster or perhaps even to grow a pair of wings and fly its way to Cheydinhal. She had given her own paint horse to the Argonian, but it was just as slow as the other one so she didn't find the need to waste energy regretting her actions. Besides, they had both been stolen at some point or other so she felt absolutely no sentimentality towards them.

In her home of Vvardenfell in Morrowind there were no horses at all. People got around using a silt strider or a boat or even the Guild Guide between the Mages Guild guildhalls. In Cyrodiil they only had horses, not even an escort for walkers or a caravan for merchants, just horses or decidedly more reliable feet to help people get around. Horses, if stolen, were cheaper, but silt striders were a damn sight more convenient for travelling between towns.

She thought back home only briefly, to her life in Sadrith Mora, the council seat of House Telvanni, and to the family that she had left behind. Her father was a low-ranked Telvanni sorceror who was slowly losing his mind after the death of his eldest son and the disappearance of his younger son in mysterious circumstances. Now that his only daughter had run away too he was sure to have lost it completely.

Still, Idari would rather have run than being married off to a Telvanni nobleman by her overzealous mother who would do anything to please her husband.

Her new life in Cyrodiil had so far been promising, following a small mishap in the Imperial Prison that resulted in her freedom and ended with the Emperor shoving a expensive golden amulet into her hands before being struck down by an assassin in a red robe she'd joined the Dark Brotherhood. So far she'd only completed three contracts, an old man named Rufio, a pirate called Gaston Tussaud and the Bosmer Baenlin, but things had been going well up to that point.

Now things seemed to be going sour.

In her pocket the Amulet of Kings reminded her of her duty to Tamriel, to 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion' as Uriel Septim had told her and to find his other son that few people knew about. So far she'd only put this duty off.

Her ears registered a snarling sound and tugged her mercilessly back into a realm of realism. On one side of the road the Argonian Turner was taking a battering from a large wolf while fighting back with his bare fists. She watched him fight with only vague interest, wondering whether she would have to finish off the wolf after he'd been killed and questioning her own morals about keeping him alive like this. He wasn't _technically_ a Dark Brother yet so _technically_ she could still kill him if she wanted to without consequence but something about the five tenets prevented her from doing anything against them.

She wasn't scared of the Wrath of Sithis, in fact she could probably destroy it easily, she just wasn't prepared to break any of the tenets just yet.

A sickening thud startled her slightly and caused her to look back at the fight scene. Turner discarded the bloody rock in his hand as if it were attacking him itself and sidestepped the body of the wolf that had a gaping wound to its head. He looked weary from the fight and fresh blood covered the sleeve of his shirt from where the animal had made a deep gash into his upper arm. Looking at the wound he clutched his head and swayed slightly as if feeling faint and then clambered back onto the horse using one arm.

"You're squeamish," the Dunmer grinned, the words delighting her as she spoke them.

"No..." Turner replied weakly, his lie obvious. "I er... lost some blood and... hit my head."

"Heal yourself then," Idari told him bluntly, still amused by the fact that he was indeed squeamish.

The Argonian closed his eyes and rubbed a temple gently. "Can't," he said with a considerable amount of effort. "Don't have enough magicka and don't have any potions. Can't pronounce the words right for spells so they all go wrong anyway..." Idari sighed in annoyance and hit him with a weak convalescence spell. Immediately the wound to his arm knitted itself back together and his headache disappeared rapidly. "Thank you," he whispered as he gained full control of all of his senses. "You didn't have to do that..."

"Please try not to remind me." She could have sworn she'd seen the Argonian pale as she spoke. "Perhaps you should get some... sleep?"

His reptilian eyes widened slightly with fear. "But you said that your family would come for me when I slept... Don't you want to be a bit closer to Cheydinhal for that?"

Idari smiled maliciously at his ignorance. "My Speaker recruits every member of the Brotherhood in Cyrodiil. I'm sure he makes many unnecessary trips across the countryside to initiate losers like you... He's found many outcasts and given them a family and a home."

A dreamy look seemed to dance behind the Argonian's eyes if only for a second. "I've never had a family," he said gently, a certain distance to his voice. "My parents were slaves in Morrowind and sent me away so that I could be free. I don't know what fate became them."

The Dunmer's face would have expressed shock if it could have been seen beneath her hood. "Slaves don't have children!" she exclaimed, her fingers tightening around the reins of the horse and shaking as she attempted to regain her composure. "How could -?"

Turner answered her before the question had even formed on her lips. "I have no idea. I don't know anything about them except that I ended up here. You're a Telvanni, aren't you?"

Her red eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "What makes you think that?" she spat contemptuously, her muscles clenching to stop the insistant shaking.

"You're reaction to slavery," he replied simply. "Telvannis are the staunchest defenders of slavery in Morrowind and they're really racist about outlanders, even other Dunmer, so I figured it out really... Only Dark Elves from Morrowind hate us Argonians so much that they vocalise it, the rest can tolerate it really. My parents really didn't send me here to be a murderer, I expect they'd be horrified to find out how badly things have gone for me..."

"Spare me the reminiscence," Idari snapped at him angrily. "You should go to sleep and fulfil your dark destiny."

The Argonian nodded gravely, as if finally coming to terms with his unlucky fate. For a moment Idari considered that it might have been perhaps more merciful to have left him in Bruma to freeze to death or rot in the prison there for a crime that he hadn't commited. She dismissed the pang of mercy as a weakness almost as soon as it crossed her mind.

They found a suitable bandit camp by the side of the road and Idari set about taking care of the previous residents. Turner flinched with each slash of her shortsword and stared in wide-eyed horror at the three corpses that soaked their warm blood into the dry earth below. Once the deed was done and every bandit lay dead Idari ordered the hapless Argonian to drag the bodies away from the camp to prevent them being attacked by predators in the middle of the night. It took everything he had not to vomit as he did so and bit his tongue hard when the question of why she hadn't even gotten a finger dirty crossed his mind.

The Dunmer stared deep into the flames of the dying campfire while she waited, watching them crackle and dance, and cast a weak fireball at the charred wood to prevent it from going out entirely. When Turner returned she reverted her attention back to him, noting his pale, petrified face, and bade him sleep in one of the canvas tents surrounding the fire, watchin over him menacingly until he at least pretended to be asleep.

The sky was black by the time he awoke again and the two moons shone purposefully, dousing everything in a pale light. The fire had gone out and a cold breeze was blowing, sending shivers down the Argonian's spine. He slipped off of the bedroll and chanced a look out of the tent to see if anything had happened yet, unaware of what he might see. Yet he saw nothing, not even the Dunmer who he suspected would have run off to leave him unarmed in the middle of nowhere at the first opportunity, and mistook the muffled footfall for the wind until a flash of green light revealed a man in a black robe and hood standing near the next tent.

"Well done Mortha, you found me," the man said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Idari sprang from behind the tent with a smirk. "You _always_ use chameleon enchantments," she grinned. "Dispel and detect life are simple enough... Are you here to initiate him?"

"Initiate _him_?" replied the amused man. "It was an accident, not a murder."

The Dunmer's grin faded and she folded her arms angrily. "So why _are_ you here?" she demanded.

"To speak with you... and to clear up a loose end," was the only sinister reply she received, a dagger appearing in the man's right hand almost instantaneously.

Idari batted his hand away angrily. "No, you are not going to kill him when I brought him all the way here!" she said through gritted teeth.

Turner swallowed in fear and shrank back into the tent while frantically thinking of an escape plan. The man, in the moonlight, looked and sounded like an Imperial, but he couldn't be sure unless he saw the man in daylight. If he lived that long.

"An intriguing concept..." the man replied slowly. "Just why did you bring him all the way here? He's a witness to your crime, you could have dealt with him." When Idari made no reply to man smiled in realisation. "It's your Morag Tong background isn't it? You don't kill witnesses unless they attempt to report you. That's why they're legal and we're not. We cannot afford loose ends, you've told him too much already."

"Then initiate him," she told the man tersely. Turner was amazed at the levelled tone she managed to maintain in the presence of this man. "The Brotherhood is experiencing dark times," she continued. "Brothers and Sisters are being killed..."

"Brothers and Sisters are always killed!" the man interupted angrily. "It's an occupational hazard."

"Well they aren't usually murdered," Idari replied finally, as if she was fully determined to have the last word on the subject. The Argonian, who was still cowering at the back of the tent, was fearful but strangely unsurprised to discover that the pair garbed in black were members of the Dark Brotherhood and therefore deadly assassins. He knew the man had every intention of ending his life and prayed that Idari would be able to convince him to leave the poor ex-beggar alone.

There was silence for a long time, to be broken only by the mysterious man's question: "How did you know of this?"

"People in the sanctuary have noticed the unusually high death-toll recently. Ocheeva's is worried about an assassin among assassins and yet the Night Mother hasn't spoken and told the identity of the traitor, has she?"

"The Night Mother will have her reasons."

"Initiate the Argonian," Idari said definitively. "You know that he isn't the traitor and he might prove useful... Though I doubt that," she added with a slight smirk.

The Imperial sheathed his dagger quietly. "Then I must speak with you first," he said, giving in to her demand reluctantly. "I came here tonight to ask you to become my Silencer."

"Your what?" the Dunmer retorted in confusion. Turner didn't like the sound of that rank either.

"In the Black Hand there are four Speakers and one Listener - four fingers and a thumb as it were - and each Speaker has a personal Silencer who they use to extend their reach. Think of a Silencer as the talons, or claws, of the Black Hand. Mine was recently killed on a contract and I have selected you as his replacement. You were something of a prodigy in the Morag Tong and thus your murderous reputation has preceded you..."

Idari cut him off abruptly. "And if I were to refuse this position?" she asked simply, hands moving to rest on her hips complacently.

"Then you have broken a tenet and will face the Wrath of Sithis," the man replied with a slight evil smirk. "'_Tenet 3: Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.'_"

The Dunmer sighed heavily. "What does a Silencer do?"

"As my Silencer you would receive contracts only from me; the responsibility also comes with exemption from the five tenets so that we may take care of Brotherhood members as we see fit. Will you accept this honour?"

"Do I have a choice?" Idari snapped back.

The Imperial grinned. "Not in the slightest," he replied maliciously.

"Then I'll accept."

"A wise decision," the man stated sarcastically. "The Argonian may have you place in the Cheydinhal sanctuary. I suggest you take him there first and then head out to Chorrol to deal with that important piece of jewellry you still have stowed away in your pocket. I'll give you two weeks in which to hand in that amulet and then return to me in Fort Farragut for your first contract."

Idari grimaced and a hand instinctively flew to the forgotten Amulet of Kings in a pocket of her armour, remembering vivdly the circumstances in which she'd come to be in possession of such an object. Not being native of Cyrodiil she'd put off the Emperor's task as her mind was filled with what she considered more important, now she realised that she'd had it in her pocket for nearly a month without acting upon it, and probably should have done something about it when she'd stumbled upon an Oblivion gate outside the now ruined city of Kvatch on her travels.

"I see you have much on your mind, Silencer," the man said after a few minutes of dead silence. "You must remember that the Emperor's death affects the whole of Tamriel and not just Cyrodiil. Perhaps that will put things into perspective for you." He took two paces forwards and stood before the entrance to the tent that Turner was hiding in so that he could just about see the Argonian through the darkness. "Do you accept your dark destiny, Argonian?" Turner nodded in fearful respect and heard the man chuckle from above the tent. "You've really picked a headstrong one, haven't you?"

"I did not _pick him_," Idari growled. "He followed me. You of all people should know that, Lucien, seeing as you seem to know so very much about me already."

"Ah, my dear Silencer, I've barely scratched the surface," Lucien replied with a further smirk. "I shall take my leave of you now." The man disappeared almost instantly, obviously casting some form of chameleon or invisability on himself, but his light footsteps were easily heard in the quiet of night as he departed the bandit camp in the direction of Cheydinhal.

Idari fumed with anger and threw a powerful fireball spell at the cinderised wood pile in the centre of the camp so that flames began to crackle violently and the area was flooded with yellow light. "You know this is your fault!" she yelled at the Argonian who was still in the tent.

Turner swallowed in fear. "It sounded like he was going to approach you anyway," he pointed out, pulling his knees up tightly into his chest.

"If I were you I would keep my mouth shut, pondscum," the Dunmer snapped through gritted teeth, drawing her swortsword in an instant. "Perhaps you were not listening when Lucien said I was exempted from the five tenets, or perhaps you just don't hold your continuing life in a high enough regard to keep your mouth shut."

The silence lasted longer than Idari had anticipated. She had expected the Argonian to have a whole score of questions to ask her, and to maybe have sat silently for ten minutes for her to calm down and then asked them. However he didn't speak a word and remained huddled at the back of his tent with his knees drawn up into his body to protect against the cold. It seemed as though hours had passed before she sunk lazily in front of the warm flames and he plucked up every courage he had to crawl from the tent to join her by the fire, though still keeping at least a swords length between them at all times.

"You have questions, pondscum?" she asked eventually, if only to break the eerie silence as the black sky began to be streaked with rays of sunlight.

Turner chose his words carefully, her insults to his race bouncing off harmlessly like a droplet of rain. "These five tenets... What are they?" he said, fiddling with his fingers so that his gaze was held away from her hooded face.

Idari was glad that he had chosen a sensible question to ask and felt obliged to give him a straight answer. "The five tenets are the rules that all Dark Brothers and Dark Sisters must follow. Basically don't disrespect the Night Mother, don't betray our secrets, don't disobey or refuse an order, don't steal from a member and don't murder a member, to do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis."

"Who exactly is Sithis? And the Night Mother?" he replied almost instinctively as his curiosity reached new peaks.

"Sithis is our Dread Father," Idari told him in a low voice. She remembered asking those two questions herself when she'd first been initiated to the Dark Brotherhood. The Morag Tong didn't worship Sithis, they murdered in the name of Mephala, the Webspinner and Daedric Prince of sex, lies and murder, or at least that was her role to the Dunmer in Morrowind. "He is our patron and we kill in his name. Our Night Mother is our Unholy Matron, she gave birth the Brotherhood. Legend has that Sithis came to the Night Mother and bore her five sons who were to become the Black Hand; she hears the prayers of people who wish assassinations and speaks to the Listener. Some people think that she and her sons might have been the very first sacrifices to Sithis, but not very much is known about her these days."

"So they're gods?"

"No," she replied quickly. "They're aren't gods at all. The Night Mother is the spirit that guides the Dark Brotherhood and the Morag Tong while Sithis is supposed to be the state of chaos. Sithis existed before the world but does not dwell on Oblivion, so it is assumed that he resides in, and is, the Void where spirits are sent at death if they are not claimed by the Daedric Lords for their realms of Oblivion. As Dark Brothers and Sisters we send souls to Sithis and Sithis provides us with an afterlife, I guess. We didn't worship Sithis in the Morag Tong so you'll have to ask Vicente or Ocheeva for details."

Turner stared deep into the flames for a while, his golden eyes glinting in the light fiercely. The sun peaked over the Valus Mountains to the east as they waited and the air began to warm slightly as the area was flooded with dawn light. Idari growled and allowed the fire to go out with the aid of a frost spell.

"I hate it when Lucien approaches me with an offer that I simply can't refuse," she grumbled to herself angrily as she prepared for the last leg of the journey to Cheydinhal. "Obviously I shall have to do a little more research about him now..."


	3. Of Secret and Shadow

_Author Note: Shockingly, chapter three has finally been redone. I think it's better, to be honest, because the tense-swapping mania that the previous version contained has finally been removed, some ten months later. Ten months is a long time and comes with a lot of progress, in my opinion, but it made this chapter exceedingly hard to write - though I slogged through it instead of maintaining my chapter 41 strike - mainly because of character development. Other chapters scheduled for rewriting are 4, 5, 7, 12 and 15, but not yet... We'll see..._

_Quote: _**_"Each event is preceded by Prophecy. But without the hero, there is no Event."_** - Zurin Arctus_, the Underking_

* * *

_Chapter 3_

After a night severely lacking in sleep, the pair of them set off towards Cheydinhal. The light of dawn was dim and glowed vaguely yellow, throwing long shadows across the ground haphazardly, though in the distance one could distinctively make out dark black clouds filled with forboding and the inevitable raindrops that they brought with them.

Unsurprisingly, the heavens chose to open upon them only about an hour down the road, close enough to Cheydinhal to make out the blurry shapes of the walls, but not quite near enough to completely avoid the shower that drenched both Idari and Turner almost instantly. The Argonian himself was barely affected by the rain; he owned no possessions of any value, and his clothes were barely worth the effort, the droplets of water glancing from his scales as if he had an invisible rain shield about him. By contrast, he could hear a stream of Dunmeri swear words being literally poured from her mouth as she bent her head low onto the paint horse's neck so that she could keep the water out of her eyes, her black leather armour keeping her skin dry for now, though it would inevitably present some problems later should it come to removing it.

When they reached the gates of Cheydinhal the torrent had eased off just a little, enough for the pair to be able to look up and look around without having endless drips of water assaulting their eyes. It appeared as if most of the citizens had disappeared indoors to escape the weather, the few guards who had been forced to remain outside apparently cursing their poor luck as droplets snaked their way down steel plates of armour - they were lucky to be wearing such armour, perhaps; luckier than leather-wearing assassins to say the least. Noticeable absences from the city guard were the Captains however, who's positions quickly became more politics than active duty anyway with every promotion that they received.

A pair of beggars hiding beneath the porch of a large house adourned with a plaque proclaiming its name to be _Riverview_ were a strange reminder to Turner of the life he had left behind the day he had left Bruma. No more hiding to escape the weather for him. He had himself a home again.

The large house called _Riverview_ faced onto a small plaza around a stone statue, surrounded on all sides by large houses that were no doubt owned by some very rich people, the Chapel of Arkay looming majestically over them, throwing a large shadow that plunged the area into the cold while protecting them from the vast majority of the onslaught from the rain.

There was one house in the plaza that stood out though. It was as large as the others yet in a terrible state of repair, a crumbling wall cordoning its boundaries from the streets and old wooden boards guarding whatever secrets it held inside, covering the windows and the door as weeds began to creep up the crumbling walls to remove whatever small amount of paint was left. Behind the house was the small well covered with an iron grate that the black paint was chipping from, probably with age.

Apparently the house was not boarded up though. Idari led the ex-beggar to the door and he noticed almost immediately that the boards did not quite overlap with the doorframe, meaning it could be opened with complete ease if one knew exactly how. The Dunmer did, it seemed, and she pushed him through the door firmly before closing it behind them.

Inside it was not much better; the place was strewn with broken furniture, most likely broken by overzealous children running rampant... Well, that was what Turner would like to assume, because this house was supposedly the home of the infamous Dark Brotherhood, though glaring at the cobwebs one could hardly believe that it was possible, and the layers of dust covering little more than other layers of dust did not bode well to the Dunmer having brought him anywhere other than an old building to finish him off...

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the bedraggled woman slamming an ebony coloured dagger into the wooden table, catapulting a thick cloud of dust into the air that began to assault his lungs almost immediately, wrenching a painful cough from him. She didn't seem too affected by the dust, perhaps an effect from having grown up somewhere around the Red Mountain during the Blight Storms that had been stopped by the Nerevarine six years ago now. At least, he assumed she was from Vvardenfell, since House Telvanni had very few holdings on the mainland.

"I should never have left Morrowind," he heard her mutter, followed by a particularly vehement curse as she attempted to remove her dagger from the table but found it stuck fast. "I should've listened to my mother's advice at settled down in Sadrith Mora, become some imbecile's damned trophy wife!" In all honesty, Turner could barely tell whether she was addressing him or whether she was talking to herself, but either way she didn't seem in a very good mood. "Should've stuck in the country where assassination is legal to avoid the bloody Imperial City Prison..." It seemed she was definitely talking to herself. She got a firm grasp on the hilt of her ebony dagger and blasted some kind of spell through the wood, causing the entire table to fall to pieces, leaving her holding her now free weapon. "Go into the basement. There's a hole in the wall and a small passageway leading to a big door that glows red. It will ask you a question - something like 'What is the colour of night?' - and you have to answer 'Sanguine, My Brother'. That's all."

It took the Argonian a few seconds to realise that she was speaking to him now, and a few seconds more to take in exactly what she had said, but then he nodded and approached the basement door, which oddly enough looked in much better shape than the rest of the building. Why hadn't he noticed this before? A moment later he had slipped out, leaving the Dunmer alone to brood on whatever she was going to claim might be held in her future.

She really couldn't cope with all this responsibility. Being a Silencer was bad enough; while people wouldn't know her face they would fear her for all eternity. They would fear her presence, fear her blades, fear a name they would never know... Fear was good; it kept people in check and stopped them from thinking she was anything other than formidable.

She certainly didn't _look_ formidable. She was short for her race, and she was female, and she was anything but muscular, and without her hood she looked like your average young adult. But she was an _assassin_, and it was time that people who would never know her name started to remember that. Perhaps their disbelief was her greatest weapon of all.

And then there was that business with the Imperial City Prison.

The Emperor may have _given_ Idari the Amulet of Kings, but that did not mean that she was bound to serve him. Morrowind had its own monarchy; they didn't need the Septims. It had been quite by accident that she had stumbled upon the city of Kvatch so briefly after her impromptu release from prison.

The citizens of the once great city had been flocked in the refugee camp in their hundreds, bleeding and dying and crying for their dead. The sky had been red with fire and the ground had been red with blood. Running into that one Oblivion gate had well and truly sealed the assassin's fate.

Now she would never be truly anonymous.

Already she was being hailed as the Hero of Kvatch by whoever paid close enough attention to realise who she truly was, and the citizens of the city would have never let her leave them if she hadn't have stolen one of the few surviving horses and rode out of there as fast as the animal could carry her. They had wanted her to co-ordinate liberating the city proper, but she hadn't been interested. Saving Tamriel was not what she was prepared to waste her time on.

The Dark Elf sighed heavily, wrenching her thoughts back to real life as she descended through the cluttered basement to the sanctuary. It was a home for her, though it would never actually replace Sadrith Mora in her heart. Maybe not Sadrith Mora now, but Sadrith Mora when she had been growing up before her elder brother had got himself killed and started this entire bizarre stream of events in motion.

The sanctuary itself was almost empty today, save for a young ex-beggar being cornered by a Bosmer and an Orc with a look of utter terror on his face. The Orc had a hand on his sack shirt and was lifting him cleanly off his feet, despite the fact that the Argonian himself was almost as tall as the assassin. The Bosmer stood to the side, toying with a strangely unnecessary dagger that she seemed to be using more for intimidation than for actually causing harm. They appeared to be questioning him about exactly how he had gained access to their home, and as soon as he spotted the Dunmer he pointed to her shakily.

"I came here with her!" he claimed desperately. He probably knew that Gogron could break his neck with a flick of his wrist, which was strangely intelligent of him. He also looked as though he was about to wet himself, so she had to admire his guts for having not done so already.

The Orc turned to check the direction that he had pointed, though Telaendril did not act as though she was prepared to fall for whatever trick he was trying to pull.

"Welcome back, Sister," Gogron grinned, sounding almost nonchalent and triggering his Bosmeri counterpart to check who it actually was.

"How did your contract fare?" Telaendril asked her, apparently now ignoring the matter of the Argonian behind her in favour of such light conversation.

The Dark Elf grinned sadistically, though it was barely noticeable beneath the shadow from her hood. "The Bosmer Baenlin lies dead and his manservant Gromm will live to fight another day of his utterly idiotic existence... It is a shame that nobody quite failed to mention Baenlin's second servant." Turner, who had been afraid she was going to allow them to tear him to pieces for a moment there, relaxed slightly, though there was still fear written across his face, especially as Gogron showed no sign of releasing him just yet.

"Don't be ridiculous Sister! Vicente would have mentioned if there were another servant!" the Orc blurted out with enough force to procure a small yelp from the helpless ex-beggar he was still holding.

"I thought the same thing," Idari admitted, folding her arms across her chest. "Evidently whoever asked the Night Mother for Baenlin's blood didn't know of a second servant either, or I would have been informed..." She paused a moment, chuckling softly. "That is no way to treat your newest Brother, Gogron. I am not so sure that Sithis would approve."

The large Orc in question took a moment to figure out exactly what she had said before suddenly recoiling in shock, dropping the Argonian back to the ground. The ex-beggar's knees failed him as his feet made contact with the floor and his falling did not come to a halt until he ended up on his hands and knees, a muttered curse escaping his lips twinned with an angry glare, taking a moment to breathe deeply before hauling himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothing as if it would have some sort of impact on his rough outfit.

Telaendril did little besides smirk at the scene in front of her before speaking again. "Ocheeva didn't inform us of a new Brother... Had we known of this, we would have been on a better lookout and none of this would have occured... Brothers and Sisters have been disappearing lately; we can't be too careful."

"This is Baenlin's second servant," Idari explained tersely. "He is to take my place in the sanctuary. I am not surprised that Lachance could not _lower_ himself to announcing our arrival. Where is Ocheeva?"

"Ocheeva is on a contract today, but I believe that Vicente is asleep downstairs," the Bosmer replied. It amazed Turner how casual they appeared to be now that they weren't trying to kill him. "Please accept our apology, Brother. Nobody else will treat you in such a way now that we know who you are..." She paused before a small smirk pulled at her lips. "Except perhaps M'raaj-Dar. One never can tell how he will react to a new Brother, but it's usually badly." Another pause. "Sister... if he's to take your place, then what is to become of you?"

"I have business to attend to elsewhere." The Dunmer unfurled her arms and placed her hands on her hips, one brushing the hilt of a silver shortsword she wore there at all times. "Well, I'll take this useless little piece of pondscum to see Vicente then. He shouldn't be sleeping at this time of day..." She turned sharply on her heels and strolled away, her strides surprisingly forceful in comparison to the way she usually walked. Turner followed after her loyally, more out of fear than anything else, throwing a glance at the pair of assassins behind him.

The passageway she led him down was only a few feet wide, and covered in rough stone from floor to ceiling, an awkward stack of crates and boxes lingering in one corner, probably filled with some kind of junk. A strange sound alerted them to the presence of a large skeleton with tattered brown cloth hanging from its old bone; it lumbered along as if it had some purpose in its undeath, its empty eyesockets only registering them as it continued its rounds. Turner would have been scared of the strange being, had Idari not acted as though this was complete normality. It seemed as though the Dark Brotherhood kept strange company.

As soon as they were out of the lines of sight of Telaendril and Gogron, Turner growled under his breath: "You could have warned me about them..."

The Dunmer looked at him for a moment, her red eyes looking mildly amused. "They acted as one would expect. In the absense of their superior they did exactly as they ought to have done. You're a stranger, and this sanctuary is illegal; you could have been a mole for the town guard! No, you should think yourself lucky that Ocheeva was not here when you arrived. She would have no inhibitions about gutting you where you stand."

"But don't the... _tenets_ forbid killing a Brother?" He wasn't actually sure on that one, as the tenets had only been explained to him briefly, but the thought of proving the smug Dunmer who would think nothing of killing him right now wrong was simply too tempting to pass over.

Turner found himself regretting the action a moment later as he found his back against the wall and her ebony dagger running lightly over his neck, just gently enough to make sure that not a drop of his blood was lost. "_Don't_ get smart with me," she warned, an eerie grin on her face visible even beneath the black leather hood. "If you had been paying attention, you would know that I am no longer bound by the Five Tenets, but you - unfortunately - are. What a _dreadful_ shame, eh?" She was teasing him now, and he knew it, though he couldn't help feeling slightly more terrified than he had done when he had been in the iron grasp of a hulking Orc. He had to wonder why she, small as she was, even for a Dunmer, could have such a forboding presence. It sent shivers running down his spine. With a flick of her wrist she had sheathed the dagger and was walking down the corridor again as if nothing has happened. "Come along. It seems apparent that you must be introduced to that confounded vampire, so get a move on."

The Argonian froze. "A... a vampire?" he stuttered. Now he truly was gripped with fear; he had read books aplenty on vampires during the years he'd spent in Cyrodiil, how they would drink from their victims and leave them for dead, and how they possessed superior strength and speed and any sense that one could think of. The chuckling of one Dunmeri assassin brought him back to reality.

"Did you think that draining a person dry is _not_ murder? No, pondscum, I believe you have not thought this through." She chuckled again, descending a set of stone stairs even further into the subterranean lair. "Besides, you have nothing to fear, Vicente is far too much of a _'gentleman'_ -" She spoke the word with some disdain. "-To drink from you without your permission, and the tenets forbid him from harming you in any way. The very worst he could do to you is fail to inform you of meddling servants belonging to your targets."

Idari flung the heavy wooden doors open with peculiar ease so that one clattered against the wall behind it and the other merely swung wide enough to admit the pair. The room was small and simple, depressingly dark save for the light of a single guttering candle standing alone in the centre of a round table surrounded by two wooden chairs. Turner looked about for something that would lead him to realise that he was in the home of a vampire - perhaps a coffin - and found himself sorely disappointed to see scarily civilised furniture: a writing desk in impeccable order, an ornately carved chest of drawers with an unlit candelabra sitting atop it, and a wooden chest that showed extreme age but surprisingly little wear. In fact, the only thing that showed the presence of a vampire at all was a stone sleeping slab pushed firmly against one wall, a figure lying upon it who was so still that he appeared... dead.

This was the _Vicente_ that the other sanctuary dwellers had mentioned, the _gentleman_ who had led to his being here in the first place. In truth, Turner should probably be grateful to the man for not informing the strangely heartless woman of his presence, as she would probably have killed him rather than giving him a chance. Vicente slept, apparently - though it was hard to believe that he could still be sleeping after the racket that Idari had caused by opening his doors; his pale face was gaunt and drawn to the extent that he looked almost like a skeleton, locks of brown hair pulled away from his face by a leather band. He was clothed almost entirely in black, but dressed like a civilian rather than in leather armour like the others - most likely he didn't need it, as he was naturally resistant to most weapons and spent very little time outside during daylight hours anyway - with long black trousers and a black shirt that both fit him so well they looked as though they were tailored to him, a pair of leather boots on his feet. It was hard to tell what race he had been before he had been turned, but with a name like Vicente Turner had to expect he had once been a Breton.

Like most assassins, he could probably have been woken with a simple touch, and probably could have drawn some kind of weapon to assault whomever approached him in the time it took them to respond to his actions, though apparently this was far too simple a concept for Idari, who approached to within a foot of the stone slab and placed her gloved fingers in her mouth only to produce an ear-shattering whistle that caused Turner to cringe in pain and, it seemed, the Orc and Bosmer to do the same as he heard their curses when the ringing in his ears subsided. A moment later he looked up to see that the vampire had risen completely, a formidable man with an ebony longsword and ebony claymore crossed across his back as if they weighed nothing, though Turner was sure that individually they would be heavier than anything he had attempted to lift before.

A pair of pale red eyes seemed to be focused solely on the morbidly amused Dunmer before him. "Sister, I deem your actions strangely unnecessary." He was definitely a Breton, and an old one judging by the way he spoke and the air he gave off. "I must urge you to actually _consider_ your actions in future. You may have alerted the City Watch, which will result in yet more substantial bribing to keep them off our backs."

"Oh, calm yourself _Brother_," Idari scoffed in replied, folding her arms. "It's raining outside and all the guards are trying to keep their hair dry. I have brought a new Brother with me..."

For the first time the vampire's eyes waivered from her to the Argonian. "Indeed. It had not escaped my notice, Sister, I was merely addressing the matters at hand first." He looked squarely at the ex-beggar for a few moments as if sizing him up before speaking again. Finally his features softened. "Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Vicente Valtieri." He bowed his head courteously, more evidence that he had been born in a day when manners had held far more importance than they did now. "I see your apprehension, so I will confirm what Sister Idari has likely told you already: I _am_ a vampire, however you needn't fear my _bite_. My devotion to Sithis far over-rules my needs as a vampire."

Turner nodded slowly in acceptance of his words. There wasn't exactly much he could do besides accept them and attempt to live with it after all. "My name is... Turner," he replied hesitantly. "I know it's not a name generally associated with members of my race, but the story that goes with my acquisition of it is not one I tend to tell..." He paused a moment, aware that not one, but two people were now listening to him, however much Idari attempted to appear as if she wasn't. "I'm afraid my skills don't really suit being an assassin; I'm useless at fighting and sometimes I'm so clumsy I can barely stand on my own two feet without some accident occuring. I own no weapon and my magic skills are... negligible to say the least."

Vicente smiled politely, though his face was so unreadable that it was difficult to tell whether the smile was genuine on not. "I daresay you will be far from the worst of those we have trained here over the years..." Without moving his head his expression shifted from polite happiness to being mildly perplexed. "Sister you seem troubled. What bothers you?"

"What do you know of the Black Hand?" the Dunmer asked slowly, her red eyes narrowing slightly though looking right between the Argonian and the Breton, her arms unfolded and refolded in the opposite direction.

"Why would you ask that?" It was a question laced with geniune intrigue. Of course, it was obvious that out of every person in the Dark Brotherhood, Vicente Valtieri was most likely to know of the Black Hand, being at least three centuries old and with more than enough life experience to make up for the distinctive lack of such by other members of the sanctuary.

Idari smirked slightly at the air that she was glaring at so intensely. "The Black Hand..." she said slowly, raising a gloved hand with five fingers outstretched. "Consists of one Listener and four Speakers. Four fingers and one thumb, so to speak... But such a deadly Hand must have claws to extend its ferocity and its impact... Silencers."

"You know of Silencers?" the vampire said slowly, crossing to his table where he took a seat and interlaced his fingers, his back perfectly straight against the chair. A moment's pause followed in which he appeared to be considering what she had said to him. "Sister, if you know of the Silencers then that can only mean that you have somehow been promoted to the Black Hand..." Idari nodded, though it was barely noticeable and she shifted her eyeline to a different patch of empty air. "Promotion to Silencer comes with new dangers and high profile targets. You should not take it lightly. You are not irreplaceable, and the Black Hand will think nothing of disposing of you should you get in their way. You cannot allow your foolish cultural biases to get in the way of your work, or you may find yourself meeting Sithis in the Void sooner than you had hoped to." He let out an exasperated sigh and drew a dagger and a bag of coins from... nowhere - for that was what it looked like to Turner - and placed them on the table. "Here is your reward and bonus. I must speak with our new Brother. Leave us."

The Dark Elf frowned deeply, but picked up the items in question, her eyes now finally moving away from the empty space to glare at the Argonian and the Breton for a few brief seconds before she flung the heavy door open again and stomped out. Turner couldn't help wincing as the door made contact with the wall once more and shut under its own weight, enough of a distraction to make him forget about being alone in a room with an age old vampire for a few precious seconds. As soon as it dawned upon him he tried to prevent the onset of panic to the best of his abilities, glancing at the man in question who gestured for him to take a seat with a wave of his desperately pale hand.

"You have nothing to fear, Brother," Vicente spoke suddenly, his voice so calm it was almost scary. "In fact, you have more to fear from Sister Idari than from anybody else here, as she is not bound by the Five Tenets. You do not seem worried about her, though she obviously treats you with some disdain, so I imagine there must be some explanation as to this matter."

So Turner recounted the tale of how he had come to be in the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary beneath Cheydinhal. He didn't start at the very start as he ought to have done, to go as far as to explain _why_ he was in Bruma in the first place - which, in his opinion, was another story in itself - but he managed to tell the tale from its beginning in Olav's Tap and Tack, to his time in the Bruma Mages Guild, to his service under Baenlin. The vampire reacted very little to the story, besides raising an eyebrow and leaning back in his chair when the young Argonian came to explaining how he had met Idari when she had killed his master, apparently a misunderstanding leading her to never suspect he had been there until his own clumsiness had revealed his location. Turner had more to tell: he told of their journey to Cheydinhal, their meeting with Lucien Lachance and how Idari had practically persuaded the man not to kill him - though it struck him as odd that she should go to so much trouble to save his life and then continue to hate him exactly the same as before - and he told of the meeting with the Orc and the Bosmer outside who he still had yet to learn the names of and how they had pinned him to a wall instead of trusting his word. At this, Vicente leant forward in his chair again, chuckling.

"Brother, that is the be expected," he insisted, obviously amused. "Assassins make a living of being untrusting. I doubt you shall meet an assassin who's honest word would be worth two Septims."

Turner frowned at this insight, because he was fairly sure that Idari seemed like the type who would never break her word, ever, on pain of death. "But Idari saved my life... She didn't have to, she could have let Lucien Lachance kill me, but she didn't..."

"Idari Mortha is the exception, not the rule," Vicente attempted to explain, though the argument seemed weak. "She is not truly Dark Brotherhood material, not yet. She was raised in the Morag Tong, and while the legality of it did not appeal to her, the concept of honour did. The contract did not mention you, so you did not die. Eventually she will break this cycle, and at that point she will be truly unstoppable. You must have some opinion of her that you feel like sharing..."

The Argonian considered this. "She is deadly with a sword, and she is deadly with magic. She is racist and she is enigmatic, but she is brilliantly intelligent. She lost a lot in becoming Silencer, but she saved my life, and for that I owe her greatly. It is not for me to pass judgement on her."

"You will defend her despite her roots in House Telvanni?"

"She cannot help what she was born." This answer was decidedly shorter than the others, and delivered far more tersely, though it had the same effect. He made no attempt to elaborate upon it either.

There was silence for a moment or two, punctuated by sounds of distant arguing coming from the entrance hall and creaking footsteps of walking skeletons. Finally Vicente smiled curtly and rose to his feet. "Come Brother, I will show you around the sanctuary." He waved a hand for Turner to follow him and exited the room swiftly. "I'm afraid I cannot introduce you to the other sanctuary members now, as many are out on contracts, including our Matron Ocheeva, however I am certain they will introduce themselves in time."

The tour itself was blissfully short. He was a shown a large room just above the one belonging to the vampire that belonged to the Ocheeva that he had heard mentioned on such a regular basis - it turned out that only Vicente and Ocheeva were thought of highly enough to have rooms of their own, and as a result the pair was jointly in charge of the sanctuary, though officially Ocheeva's word was final; it was probable that she deferred to his experience whenever she could not reach a decision herself - it was a large room but it was mostly empty, no sign that it belonged to anyone at all, save for a small desk and bed that could have been owned by anybody, really. The entrance hall, Vicente explained, was not used as regularly as it might have been, and usually people only went through it to get elsewhere, rather than staying in there for any period of time, though the bookshelf in the corner did tend to attract the odd Brother or two for a spot of quiet reading. The first time they passed through the room, it was completely empty save for something the vampire introduced as the Dark Guardian, though apparently everybody had a different nickname for the thing.

The next room he was shown was a _Training Room_, or so it said on the rough plaque above the door, though inside there was no denying its purpose. It was littered with training dummies and archery targets - Vicente attempted to explain that people used different targets for different purposes, though the specialities of the Brothers and Sisters at the moment meant they practically had a training dummy that they claimed as their own and everybody else steered clear of. The Orc and Bosmer from earlier stood practicing at their respective targets, the female with a bow and arrow while the male favoured a large axe. The vampire introduced them as Telaendril and Gogron gro-Bolmog, and they both acknowledged the introduction without dropping their focus on what they were doing, prompting the Breton to lead Turner away. They passed back through the entrance hall, which now contained a solitary Dunmeri woman 'reading', though it was obvious to anybody who was paying enough attention would have noted that the book was upside down and she had merely picked it up to appear spontaneous.

The final room was the Living Quarters, and the long tunnel leading to it indicated that they were travelling even further underground, past a small brown rat that the vampire said they had named Schemer and was something of a pet for them, if assassins had pets. The room itself consisted of several small beds that obviously had very different owners, and a table adourned with food where the sanctaury dwellers apparently took their meals when they were here, cooking equipment lying around for when they wanted to make their own. Vicente told him that a young Breton girl named Antoinetta Marie tended to take cooking duty when she was in the sanctuary, and at other times people saw to themselves. He showed Turner to a bed and said that Ocheeva would be along when she got back from her contract with his armour and answers to any questions that he thought of during that time, and then the vampire muttered something about returning to his slumbers and departed, leaving Turner alone save for the rat that scampered up and down at its own bidding.

And Turner sat back on his bed, surprisingly contented with the situation because, after all these years, he'd finally found a proper home.


	4. Weynon Priory

_Author Note: As promised, not just a Dark Brotherhood story. This chapter sees the beginnings of the Main Quest unfolding as Idari visits Weynon Priory with the Amulet of Kings - wahay! It's also pretty long for me, over 4000 words. Thanks to CallumDaGrouch123 for reviewing! Enjoy_

__**Disclaimer: The only person I own from this chapter is Idari... Everyone else belongs to Bethesda**

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Chapter 4

Idari Mortha had ridden across Cyrodiil for almost eight days when she reached the city of Chorrol. She'd been putting this task off because she knew that her profession as a murderer would come dangerously close to being exposed by presenting herself to this Blade she'd been told to report to. The Emperor had told her to deliver the Amulet of Kings to Jauffre, a Blade who had apparently retired to become a monk in the priory near Chorrol, and frankly Idari couldn't see how a retired Blade would be of any use in 'closing shut the jaws of Oblivion', as the Emperor had told her to do. Of course, he'd also mentioned another heir to her and said that this Jauffre character would know where to find the heir to the Septim throne, probably because he'd been in the right place at the right time.

The Dunmer didn't plan on sleeping in the city because her identity could be compromised at any moment and then she'd be hauled back off the prison, which was the last place she wanted to be. Being a member of the Black Hand probably increased her chances of being recognised in one of the big cities nearby. Instead she decided to ride on to Weynon Priory and rest there.

The Emperor had pardoned her of her crimes before his death, which was about twelve murders struck off the list, but she had commited at least three since then which led to her having a bounty on her head, and not a small one. Idari could only wonder how this law abiding Blade would take to dealing with a murderer like her.

Weynon Priory was not far from Chorrol, perhaps an hours ride at a stretch, and therefore she arrived shortly before midnight. There was a small chapel and one other building which seemed to be something like the living quarters, and behind that was a small stable. Idari guided the stolen paint horse into the stable and tied it tightly to a post by its reins before glancing about for a sign of life. When she was certain that there was nobody nearby she strode quickly to the door of the larger building and tried the handle; the door was locked and Idari swore loudly.

She delved into a pocket of her black armour and pulled out a lockpick knowing that picking the lock was risky but necessary because she couldn't stay in this place for very long. In truth she didn't even know what race this Jauffre guy was, so finding him while trespassing in an abbey didn't seem particularly likely either.

It was easy to unlock and held her back for a minute at most.

The Dunmer snuck inside carefully and looked around furtively for anyone who could be 'Jauffre'. As it was after midnight, however, there were no people on the ground floor at all and she suspected that they might be asleep upstairs. Sitting ducks if she ever received a warrant for their assassination.

The stairs were far stronger than the ones she had encountered during her previous contract and she found her way up them without making a sound. At one point the stairs branched in two directions and Idari chose to first check the left-hand landing because that appeared to be where the people were sleeping. Upon closer inspection the beds were filled with an Imperial and a Breton with no means of indentification on them at all. Idari sighed; this was going to be a long night.

To fill the time she decided to check out the opposite landing and was surprised to see that there was someone still up there sitting at a rigid wooden desk and looking bored out of his brain. Faced with a choice between asking him outright which person was Jauffre and being caught trespassing, or just waiting for something to happen, the ever impatient Idari chose the former without any shadow of doubt.

She stood from her crouched sneaking stance and strolled, as casually as she could manage, over to the desk. The man behind it looked old and appeared, on first glance, to be a Breton, though she wasn't so sure about that because most of her knowledge of Bretons came from Vicente, who wasn't exactly... alive.

"Who are you?" the man demanded fiercely as he saw her. "And why are you here?"

Idari's red eyes flashed with an air of mischief for a brief moment before she replied, "My name is Idari Mortha, and I have come to this place seeking a man named Jauffre on some delicate matters."

"I am Jauffre," the man - who she was now pretty sure was a Breton - replied, leaning back in his wooden chair. "What is your business at this late hour?"

"The Emperor is dead..."

"I know, I read about it in the Black Horse Courier over a month ago," the Breton snapped, cutting her off.

Idari fixed the Breton with a look of complete scorn that would have caused a weaker man to keel over from a heart attack (this method, in fact, had been used in one of her murders in Morrowind after a man threatened to report her to the Sadrith Mora guards). "The Emperor is dead and so are all his heirs," she continued, repeating the first part of the sentence with added emphasis. "But apparently there is another heir which you know about, so I was sent to find you and bring you this..." She dove into a pocket and pulled out the 'Amulet of Kings' which, to her, appeared to be little more than a hyped up ruby necklace with a stupid title.

Jauffre gripped the arms of his chair in shock at seeing the ornate jewellry, recognising it instantly. During his career with the Blades he had seen this amulet many times and knew that its appearance in the hands of a trespassing Dunmer could be little coincidence. "How..? Where did you get this? The reports said that it was missing from the Emperor's body when they found him."

"The Emperor gave it to me."

"A likely story," the Breton scoffed. "When would someone like _you_ have had a chance to meet the Emperor, let alone be given the Amulet of Kings?"

"I was there when he was killed," she replied simply, enjoying the look of shock followed by the look of fear crossing the Blade's face.

"I think you should explain yourself," Jauffre replied through gritted teeth. "_Now._"

Idari grinned inwardly while debating which sequence of events to relay to him - the cynical version or the bloodthirsty version. They both seemed as if they would go down equally badly with this touchy Breton. The Redguard in the Prison had been much more understanding of her story and had even told her where to go to find Jauffre, though she couldn't recall his name for the life of her. "It all began in the Imperial City Prison," she began slowly, knowing that telling him what she was in prison for was likely to result in disaster. "There was some dreadful Dunmer in there who wouldn't shut up and next thing I know there are three Blades and some old guy threatening to kill me if I try anything because I was in the wrong cell or something. Then they opened some 'secret escape route' and the Emperor pardoned me because he'd seen my face in his dreams... So eventually two of the three Blades were killed and the Emperor gave me this amulet to find you and then go off in search of his missing heir. Simple enough for you?" There was a pause. "Oh, and the Emperor also cleared me of all the crimes I had committed before I went to jail... and I guess he can do that because he's so important in Tamriel and all that... Anyway, tell me where this other heir is and I'll get out of your hair - or lack of it."

Jauffre leant forward and snatched the Amulet of Kings from Idari's hand and peered at it closely. "What you say seems far-fetched," he mumbled in the direction of the table. "But the Emperor is renowned for having visions of what will be in the future, so I don't doubt that the events you described could feasibly have happened. Tell me, what did these assassins look like?"

"I really need to get going, you know," the Dunmer retorted impatiently. "They wore red robes and used bound armour and weapons. Other than that, as I myself was unarmed, I can't tell you a thing, except that I was sprayed with blood when the last one was cut down by some Redguard Blade. They weren't very good assassins, to be honest, and had they not leapt from a secret passageway behind me I probably could have taken them on unarmed and won, saving the Emperor and all three of his Blades single-handedly. Now, about this heir..."

The Blade leant back in his chair again and sighed. "You're an impatient one," he said in a low voice. "Many years ago the Emperor summoned me to his room in my capacity as Grandmaster of the Blades. A baby boy lay sleeping in a basket and I knew at once that the baby was the Emperor's illegitimate son. He told me to take the boy away and to watch over him as he grew, knowing that his claim to the Cyrodilic throne would never need to be known, though it seems that he is now the last surviving heir, probably because he was only known about by myself and the late Emperor. For a while I lost track of him in the area of the Gold Coast and then he reappeared suddenly as priest of Kvatch. Last my intelligence told me he was still there. Now, you tell me if the Emperor said anything else to you before he died."

Idari gripped the hilt of the sword held at her waist tightly. "He told me to 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion'. I don't know precisely what that means, but all is lost. Kvatch fell to the daedra little over a month ago. There were few survivors."

"I heard the Oblivion gate at Kvatch was closed..."

"It was. I closed it."

Jauffre stood up violently, his chair sliding backwards across the wooden floor loudly. "Then go back to Kvatch and search through the survivors," he growled. "Do not tell me all is lost until you find Martin, or you find Martin's corpse among the rubble. I don't care if it takes all year."

"A priest named Martin?" the Dunmer replied, unfazed. "I know that the chapel in Kvatch still stands, so perhaps the priest inside of it survived, but I don't know for certain because the city was badly damaged and most of its people were stuck in a camp down the hillside. I'll get going now then..."

"Good," the Breton replied harshly. "And be sure to bring Martin back with you, dead or alive."

Idari strode across the room to the stairs, then stopped and turned back to face the old man. "Oh, and the next time you threaten me you won't live long enough to explain anything else to me. Good day."

Jauffre blinked in surprise as the Dunmer whipped around and sprang down the stairs with astonishing accuracy, then he winced as he heard the door to the house slammed shut behind her and at least two cups and three paintings descend to the floor. He glanced down at the amulet in his hand and sighed, knowing that this unorthodox Ashlander was the only hope Cyrodiil had left as she was the only one who knew anything about closing the Oblivion gates which were opening with greater frequency with each passing week.

At the sound of a tentative cough, his grey eyes lifted from the amulet - which he hastily thrust into a drawer of his desk - and he saw the elderly prior standing before him.

"Is anything wrong, Brother Jauffre?" he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes and stifling a very obvious yawn.

"Nothing, Father," the Blade replied. "Just an associate of mine dropping in with a progress report. Go back to sleep."

Prior Maborel shifted uneasily. "The doors were locked tonight, Jauffre, and your associates know to visit during daylight hours. They also left in a fairly spectacular manner... I think they've broken one of Brother Piner's vases..."

"There is nothing wrong," Jauffre repeated. "The matter was an urgent one and she was required to pick the lock. From now on, Father, I suggest leaving the doors unlocked at night so that when she returns - and she _will_ return - she does not have to pick it again. I will take responsibility for Piner's vase, he need not know anything about this. He still sleeps, I assume."

"Of course," Maborel chuckled. "Not even Oblivion itself could wake him. You should get some sleep yourself, Brother, it's getting late."

Jauffre nodded. "I will, Father, I just have a package to deal with before I turn in for the night. Its very important that this is done tonight because of its sensitivity. I never expected that my retirement would be cut quite so short, but I fear I may be leaving you soon, Father, to return to the Blades. They will need a Grandmaster - Captains Renault and Steffan have done a good job, mark my words, but Renault was recently killed in action and with this Oblivion Crisis I fear things will only get worse."

"Very well Brother. Talos guide you in your journey. Goodnight, Brother," the prior replied, inclining his head courteously and departing back to his warm bed for a long sleep.

The Grandmaster massaged his temple in an attempt to soothe his aching head and sighed deeply, struck by the fact that he had forgotten that Martin was the Emperor's son and mentally kicking himself for not checking on Martin for some months. For all he knew the Emperor's only heir could have been killed in the siege of Kvatch and he was the only person to be held responsible since he was the only person who had known about it. If Martin was alive, the gods willing, Jauffre would escort him to Cloud Ruler Temple where he would be safe from harm for the meantime until they had thought of a better plan, or even knew the identities of the assassins so that they could be taken out one by one until they had captured the mastermind behind the Emperor's death. Jauffre smiled at the prospect of revenge and prayed silently to Talos that he would live to see the day when the Emperor was avenged and the Septim blood in Martin was restored upon the throne. He had never liked High Chancellor Ocato, even back when he was still plain old Ocato.

Outside Idari Mortha cursed loudly as she fumbled with the knots she'd tied to keep her horse in place. Her fingers were cold and turning numb, and twinning this with the fact that she couldn't even remember the last time she'd laid her head down to get some sleep, she found it near impossible to untie. She was about to draw her sword to cut the horse free when a Dunmer ran up to her defensively and demanded of her who she was and where she came from. She told him that she had visited Jauffre and would now be on her way, but the Dunmer was insistant that the door had been locked so nobody should have seen Jauffre on this night.

Idari resisted the urge to kill the interfering Dunmer when the tight knots suddenly came undone in her hands and she swung herself up quickly onto the paint horse. She told the Dunmer that she wouldn't bother him again if he was going to get so uppity with her, and then wondered why he proceeded to grow yet more agitated at her presence. Admittably, she may have called him the son of an Ashland whore, and may have accused him of having sexual relationships with the sheep she'd seen in the area he'd run from, but that was really no reason for him to get so angry. In the end she just spurred her horse off from the priory and set off southwards towards Kvatch.

The journey was a long one, but would have taken longer if she'd followed the roads instead of just nipping through the countryside as she decided was best. The horse was pathetically slow and she dubbed it 'Turner' after the stupid Argonian she'd picked up in Bruma. In honesty, the Argonian wasn't that bad, he was just... an Argonian.

She could see Kvatch from miles away. The blackened smoke still rose into the sky, which wasn't as red as it had been when she had first entered the Oblivion gate there. For a brief moment she wondered if the Emperor had wanted her to shut all of the Oblivion gates in order to 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion' but then she realised that the senile old fool would never have tasked such a large job to a simple Dunmeri murderer who had just happened to appear to him in a dream one night.

Strewn in front of the now closed gate were the corpses of various daedra, left to rot, and the single corpse of a fallen guard, who had been laid out peacefully for a presumed funeral once the city was recaptured from the remaining daedra who still resided within the walls. The head of the Kvatch guard, Savlian Matius, was still outside the walls of the city, waiting to lead a squad of men inside to destroy the remaining threats. Idari dismounted and approached him; she didn't like him because he had called her a civilian and told her to go away to where she'd be safer, but she knew that speaking with him was a necessary evil if she was to find this heir.

She whistled loudly and half of the guards clutched their ears in pain, dropping their swords and heavy shields to the ground with a clang. "I need to find Martin," she shouted towards them, though not quickening her pace to meet them.

"You again..." Savlian Matius growled. "Last you were here you told us that our city could burn because you hadn't the time to help us protect it, and now you're interested in finding survivors? You've some nerve, ashborn. Martin was in the city when it was attacked, if he's alive, he's still inside the chapel. Do you plan to help us this time, or are you still too busy?"

"Well, it is your city, so _really_ you should be the one to take it back," Idari smirked at him. "But seeing as I've been gone a month and you still haven't built up the courage to even open the gate - meaning the people in the chapel have either been mauled by daedra or died or starvation by now - I guess you're just too big a sissy to give the order to go in. In any case, I need Martin and you need your city, so for now our needs are the same: to resecure at least part of Kvatch so I can get him out of there..."

"And what's so important about Brother Martin that you need to save him so much more than anyone else?" the Imperial replied tersely.

"He's more important than your tiny Imperial mind could ever comprehend. Right, open the gates then!"

The guards opened the gates so slowly and fearfully that Idari got impatient and rushed in as soon as the gates were far enough open to slip through. The daedra inside were easy to kill, scamps and stunted scamps, not even a proper daedroth anywhere and she'd killed all bar perhaps two by the time the Kvatch Guard had built up the courage to look inside. Being a Dunmer, her inherited resistance to fire was particularly useful in situations such as this.

As soon as the last scamp fell to her blade she dashed through the heavy wooden doors into the Chapel of Akatosh which stood partly demolished in the centre of the town. There were only about six people inside and each looked as miserable as the next. As race was determined by the mother, Idari soon realised that she would have no idea what Martin would look like, but the priest kneeling next to the altar was probably her best bet.

"Martin," she said harshly, so that every head in the chapel turned to look at her and the priest almost jumped out of his skin. "You need to come with me, _now_. Let's get going."

The Imperial man stared at her for a long time with intense blue eyes but said nothing. Idari grew impatient.

"Are you deaf?" she asked him. Then, turning to the others in the chapel, she added: "Is he deaf?"

"I'm not deaf," he said in a slow, calculating voice. "Who are you and why do you need me, a lowly priest of Akatosh?"

"My name isn't important, however you need to go to Weynon Priory because the assassins who killed your father are going to come after you just as soon as they figure it out..."

Martin looked shocked. "My father was a farmer, he died many years ago..."

"You've been living a lie!" Idari shouted, drawing more attention as Savlian Matius and his motley crew trailed in through the chapel doors. "Your 'father' was no more related to you than I am now. Now get your stuff, we're leaving."

The priest didn't move a muscle, he didn't even flinch. "Tell me why you want me to go with you and abandon these people when they need me most."

The Dunmer drew her sword threateningly. The Guards reacted accordingly by drawing their own weapons, but neither party made any move to attack as Idari tried to stay focused on saving all of Tamriel from Oblivion. "The people here don't need a priest, they need an Emperor and you'll be far more use when you're that to them. Get moving."

"Emperor? My father was a farmer, not an Emperor..." Martin replied, a look of puzzled smothering his unusually calm features.

"Enough with the farmer already!" Idari shouted, taking a lump from one of the chapel pews with a swing of her sword. "What do you think the Emperor's wife would have said when she learnt about his illegitimate child? Of course he spirited you away! Well now all the heirs they knew about are dead and that leaves you, or do you want Cyrodiil - or indeed all of Tamriel - to fall to Mehrunes Dagon because you believed yourself to be the son of some long dead farmer?"

"Illegitimate son?" the priest, and apparently most of the chapel's occupants, whispered in surprise.

Idari gave up and grabbed the priest's wrist forcefully, dragging him into the streets of Kvatch. "This is what they did to Kvatch!" she shouted, gesturing the destruction around her as the fires still raged. "And you know what, this was all because Dagon figured out where _you_ were! Soon he'll send the assassins he sent after your father here for you as well. Two of the Blades fell to those assassins, so imagine what they'd do to a small, depleted town like this! If you go to Weynon Priory now then at least what's left of Kvatch can be salvaged..." She was surprising herself that she sounded so convincing, but she pressed on, telling him about the other Oblivion gates she'd shut and about how other cities would soon fall because she was the only one who knew how to shut them and yet she was here playing nanny to a boy that couldn't see what was so obvious to everyone around him. "It's your choice Martin," she concluded. "Save all of Cyrodiil - likely all of Tamriel by now - or stay here and watch your city burn as the blood of the people who need you most is spilt upon the floor at your feet while you know that all of this, every scrap of it, is all your fault."

"All this death?" Martin stuttered quietly. "Could it possibly all have been to kill me? Could I actually have prevented this? We'll leave right away, I don't need any things. Just so long as we can put an end to all these thoughtless deaths."


	5. Cloud Ruler Temple

_Author Note: I should say that the end of this chapter is VERY tacky, but I spent an entire week staring at an almost complete chapter and decided that enough was enough. OK, I'm going back to the DB next chapter since there are a few more things I want to happen before I get back to the Main Quest. I was also contemplating maybe adding another guild into the mix, but not until things are more established around here. Thanks to everyone who reviewed... I've tried to act on what you've said but I think I've failed in this chapter, sorry! Especially thanks to CallumDaGrouch123 again, who has reviewed all the chapters so far, which was completely unnecessary_

__**Disclaimer: I own anyone you don't recognise... unless I use some of the test characters, in which case you wouldn't recognise them anyway - unless you're as cool as me ;P**

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Chapter 5

The ride back to Weynon Priory took far longer than Idari had ever anticipated. For starters she and Martin owned only a single tired-out paint horse between them and so one person always had to walk alongside (or far behind when it was her turn to ride), and secondly Martin didn't stop moaning about how much death he's caused in the place he'd come to consider a home, which annoyed the impatient Dunmer something chronic. What had taken her a two days ride before, this time took almost six days since Martin always insisted on stopping for the night and swapping who was riding the horse at the most inconvenient of moments.

"Did you know my father?" Martin asked eventually, a fair few days - Idari had long since lost count - after they'd left Kvatch.

Idari shook her head. "Not personally. I met him once. I was there when he died. In Morrowind the Emperor isn't as important as he is here, even though we still respect his rule, so things are mostly looked over by the Imperial Legion. Why would it matter if I knew your father anyway? It's not like you did."

Martin recoiled as if he had been stung. "I never knew my father and therefore I have no idea what being an Emperor is like. You can't expect me to just suddenly know how to be royalty, I'm only a priest!"

"You were never just a priest Martin, and it's time you started to realise this. Nobody ever told you who you were because you were illegitimate and knowledge of your birth would cause a scandal. You're lucky the Emperor had the good sense to send you away instead of having you killed like my father would have done. You're also lucky that nobody knew about you otherwise you'd be dead by now too. Your brothers died at the same time as your father, otherwise nobody would ever have had to know about you and you could have continued to be 'only a priest' forever, all the while being none the wiser of the Dragonblood pumping through you. Well Martin, I'm sorry to break it to you, but we don't control our futures as we'd like to anymore and the Nine aren't exactly going to stop Mehrunes Dagon, are they? No, you are."

"And you will help me, my nameless champion?" the priest replied sincerely. For a moment Idari thought he might be joking, but the look on his face told her that he was not.

"It seems that I, like you, don't have much choice in the matter. Your father dreamt about me and here I am. Trust me, I'd rather not be involved and remain a nameless shadow for all eternity like the Nerevarine - nobody remembers her real name but her actions will go down in the history books for all eternity. I'm already the 'Hero of Kvatch', but that is the way I would like to stay," Idari paused to recollect her thoughts. "Though rest assured that I shall help you in your quests so long as it is your name that enters the history books and not mine."

"Well it'll make things easier for me to know exactly what your name is. When I'm... If I'm Emperor I promise I'll keep your name out of all the books as anything besides the Hero of Kvatch or whatever other title you acquire during your time with me... Champion of Cyrodiil, Saviour of Tamriel, I don't know, whatever you become..."

"My name is Idari, you needn't know my clan name. I don't want my parents to find out where I am..." the Dunmer replied with a deep sigh.

The countryside rolled before them like ripples of a wide green ocean with tall, majestic trees at every turn and rugged boulders jutting from the ground surrounded by a whole host of wild flowers growing around. Idari didn't care much for nature and neither did she particularly care for the cities of either Cyrodiil or Morrowind. In honesty she'd never planned to stay in Cyrodiil until she was arrested in the Imperial City; her original plan had been to travel to High Rock or Valenwood - anywhere far from Morrowind was good in her opinion - and start a life there... perhaps start her own guild of assassins some day. But the Brotherhood got her first and now she was more commited to something than usual.

Martin didn't look much at the countryside as they rode or walked through the large forest; he knew that it was a beautiful place and he didn't need to see it to believe it anymore. Besides this, he was too busy wondering just how much of his life had been a lie and how quickly everything had changed around him on the day that the Great Gate opened outside Kvatch to storm the city and kill everyone except the one man they had sought to destroy.

"Idari, do you believe in the gods?" Martin ventured after glaring at his sodden priests' robe for a very long while.

The Dunmer smiled strangely, as if she'd been anticipating this question for years. "The gods of Cyrodiil are different to the gods of Morrowind and as a priest I suppose you know a thing or two about the religions of both. I can't say that I believe in aedra because we can't see them and we never experience their powers and, let's face it, they never appear in our time of need. However Daedric Lords are real - you might think that I say this just because I'm from Morrowind - and I know you might not believe this for three reasons. Reason one: you're a priest of the Nine so you think they're great; reason two: you're an Imperial so you will know next to nothing about Daedric Lords; reason three: daedra worship is frowned upon in Cyrodiil so... well, just so."

"You're wrong," Martin whispered with a triumphant smirk plastered across his face. "One: before I was a priest of the Nine I was a daedra worshipper... which kind of answers both two and three as well, I guess."

Idari was stunned to the extent that she almost fell off the horse backwards and regained her balance just in time to swerve to avoid the oncoming tree, getting whipped in the face with the branches in the process. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and she thanked all the gods that she'd ever heard of for the fact that she'd remembered to wear her hood upon leaving the Sanctuary. "Daedra worshipper, eh?" she replied cynically. Her attempts to sound mysterious failed miserably and she gave up when she heard the heir to the throne sniggering behind her. "Which one? Azura? And why'd you give up? It's a pretty big conversion from the blatantly real to the could-possibly-be-real-if-you-have-enough-faith-in-things-you-can't-see."

"I thought the same thing when I was younger. I grew up on a farm near Kvatch and got taken to the chapel every other Sundas where I got bored beyond belief. When I reached the age to leave home I look up Daedric Shrines in Cyrodiil in some book or other and set off out of curiousity, spurred on by the restrictions of the Mages Guild. Eventually I became a Sanguine worshipper and it was good for a couple of years and all, until I was given the Rose of Sanguine. Things went wrong from there, we got in over our heads. People died. My friends died. I turned my back on the daedra... they were just a little too real. Have you ever followed a specific daedra?"

Idari shook her head. "I was intrigued for a while, but then my brother was killed and I began to form my plan to leave Morrowind for good. After that religion was pretty low on the agenda..." Suddenly a realisation struck her hard. "So you were worshipping Sanguine at the time Jauffre lost you, this explains a lot..."

"Jauffre was... following me?" the heir replied, feeling puzzled. "Firstly, I don't think you ever told me who he was and secondly, I thought you said that nobody knew where I was..."

"Well obviously at least one person knew where you were, otherwise how else would I have found you?" Idari replied with a growing exasperation. "And I guess it was his job to follow you since he's the one who gave you to your 'parents'. He's a Blade, probably a retired one considering he looks about five hundred years old and probably hasn't held a weapon in years either. From what I gather he's actually Grandmaster of the Blades, except that he lives in a Priory in the middle of some god-foresaken forest and, like you, appears to have gone all religious for no apparent reason... Actually... that building over there looks fairly promising, come on."

Idari spurred the horse violently and the poor animal yelped and took off at a gallop in the direction which she guided it. Martin jogged along behind in a futile attempt to keep up with her but eventually gave up, resolving instead to just head for the building she was riding towards at a more suitable pace for the sole heir to the Cyrodilic throne.

When Idari reached the Priory she sprang from the horse before it had even slowed to a stop and was exceedingly surprised to find herself again faced with the red-robed assassins wearing bound armour. One of the priests she'd seen in her previous visits lay dead on the ground with his warm blood soaking into the dried out earth from a deep gash across his chest. The other priest and the Dunmer who had confronted her in the stables were both trying to hold off the same assassin and looked as if they were both about to be killed in a single swipe of a blade; at their feet lay the slightly charred corpse of another assassin. Jauffre was nowhere to be seen but was probably dead, she decided, since he was way too old to be fighting - either that or he was cowering in fear somewhere. Idari flung a powerful shock spell towards the remaining assassin, who clutched his chest in agony and fell to the ground with a soft thud and a weak moan of pain.

The priest fainted with shock or exhaustion, or both, and Idari rolled her eyes in disbelief.

"You again!" the stable Dunmer shouted at her after comprehending slowly who she was. "What are you doing here?"

Idari drew her sword and approached him menacingly. "Jauffre. Where is he?" she demanded, wishing that she had been an artist capable of capturing the priceless expression on his terrified face.

"Jauffre was in the chapel when we were attacked. I don't know what became of him, but Prior Maborel was killed!" the Dunmer moaned in reply, gesturing wildly towards both the corpse of the prior and the doors of the chapel, which were spattered with the blood of one of the assassins.

"Right," Idari replied with a slight roll of her eyes. Of course Jauffre would be in the chapel, and he was probably dead already. "Martin!" she yelled back through the trees at the ambling priest. "Stay here, right here, and don't move!"

Martin jogged up to meet her and, putting a hand on her arm, he said: "You defeated the daedra at Kvatch so I'm sure you can defeat the assassins in there easily, but I say this to you: good luck and Mara guide you."

Strangely Idari was touched by his words even though he'd spent the last however many days annoying her to the point where she would have killed a less important person and the fact that she didn't believe in the gods he'd blessed her with. With a small nod she burst through the chapel doors.

Immediately she noticed the blood on the stone walls and floor and dripping from the bodies on the floor. There were three assassins wielding bound maces, and that wasn't including the one laying dead on the floor, attacking the old Breton fiercely and strangely there wasn't even a scratch on him. He was wielding an Akaviri Dai-katana and Idari stood in awe as it sliced through the armour of the assassin to Jauffre's left and then to the one on his right without so much as a flinch from the monk to show any sign of remorse for the deaths he'd caused. The third assassin got a blow in to Jauffre's arm which caused him to lose the hold on his two-handed sword slightly but not enough to prevent him swinging the mighty katana with his uninjured arm and catching the assassin on the leg. The assassin howled in pain and fell to the floor clutching his bleeding leg with fear in his eyes; Jauffre tried to lift the sword to strike him dead but his injury prevented him from raising it high enough to land any kind of blow.

"Who sent you?" the Breton demanded of the assassin, laying his sword against a blood-stained wooden bench.

The assassin grinned evilly as the blood covered his hands faster than he would have liked. "I serve only my lord Dagon," he replied sinisterly.

"What is the name of your organisation?"

Yet this time the assassin's lips stayed sealed in a crooked threatening smile.

"He won't tell you," Idari called across the chapel. The assassin's head snapped about to look at her but Jauffre's eyes remained fixed only on the assassin. "He's a true martyr, prepared to die for his cause, and who are we to deny him?" She cast a command humanoid spell to lift the assassin to his feet with a jerk. "Shall I finish him for you?"

Jauffre finally turned his head to look at her and recognised the burning bloodlust in her eyes. "Did you find him?" he asked, suddenly oblivious to the suspended assassin.

"This is inappropriate," the Dunmer replied, approaching the Imperial assassin with a skip in her step. "Where I come from assassination is legal," she whispered in the ear of the assassin who, to her utmost annoyance, showed no sign of fear. "It seems you chose the wrong choice of residence... Tell your master in the Void that you failed and tell him that next time he'd better make sure I'm elsewhere before he tries to topple a dynasty." Then she plunged a cold silver dagger deep into the assassin's guts, mentally hating herself for standing close enough to be doused in his blood a second later. She released him from the spell and his convulsing body fell to the floor as he vomited fresh blood across the ground.

"Did you find him?" Jauffre repeated with more urgency, taking a step away from the dying assassin gingerly.

"See for yourself," Idari replied shortly as she dashed back through the chapel doors.

The monk followed her while taking care to step around the pools of blood spreading across the chapel floor and strode into the courtyard to see his prior, Maborel, lying dead amongst the bodies of yet more assassins, Brother Piner lying unconscious while being tended to by the stablehand Eronor and the Dunmer woman talking fiercely to an Imperial priest who was obviously Martin. "The Amulet of Kings!" he gasped in a sudden fit of realisation and took off running towards the priory house where he'd left in before.

Idari watched him go and wasn't planning on following until Martin took off after him, making it her duty to make sure that the silly fool didn't get himself killed. Jumping up the stairs three at a time she actually managed to catch up with the heir before he'd even reached the top himself. Jauffre rounded the corner into a room which she hadn't seen at all on her previous visit and began tearing through a drawer maniacally. It seemed as if he had finally lost it.

"The Amulet of Kings is gone!" he exclaimed in horror as he rummaged through one final chest.

"Oh great! And after I went to all that trouble to bring it to you!"

"But all is not lost," he continued sadly. "You found Martin and he lives. We must take him to Cloud Ruler Temple, there a dozen men can hold against an army. You have proven your worth so you can work on finding the Amulet. Without it we will never light the Dragonfires and Oblivion will break through into Tamriel."

"Who said I was sticking around?" Idari replied indignantly. "I found your heir, why should I find the Amulet that _you_ lost?"

"Idari," Martin replied calmly amidst all the anger and death. "You promised you'd help me and I really need your help. Accompany us to Cloud Ruler Temple... please."

The Dunmer smiled as Jauffre glared at her. "See Jauffre, _he_ asks nicely. Where exactly is Cloud Ruler Temple?"

"Bruma," the Grandmaster replied with a scowl.

Idari did a double take. "Are you being serious? Bruma? I can't go to Bruma, I need to be in Cheydinhal in two weeks time. Seriously, Bruma? You want the Emperor to freeze to death or something?"

"Well, I guess if you need to be in Cheydinhal in two weeks time..." Jauffre began with a smirk. "Then we'll have to leave immediately. We might get there in time that way. And by the way, you're needed in the Imperial City as well so don't get any ideas."

"I AM NOT A MESSENGER!" Idari exploded angrilly, drawing the shortsword at her hip in an instant. "You need someone in Imperial City you send one of your precious Blades!"

Martin sighed deeply and twinged at the sharp pain building in his head. "Both of you stop it now!" he commanded, and the squabbling pair, surprised by the new-found authorative tone in his voice, fell silent. "Unless you can put your petty arguments behind you Tamriel will fall. My father asked for both of you so it seems that you're both stuck together until this is over or we're all dead. Idari, you will accompany us to Cloud Ruler Temple and then you're free to go to Cheydinhal, though be sure to visit the Imperial City when you next get a chance. Jauffre, get off her case! She doesn't have to be here... heck, she even need to be in the province! My father may have let you do as you please, but I am not my father and I never even met the man so you don't treat us the same. I'm a priest of Akatosh and my name is Martin and that's how I want you to treat me, with as much respect as that symbol demands. I never expected that I would be Emperor, and I never wanted to be Emperor, so as much as you two don't want to get on I'n afraid you have to."

"Of course, sire," the Breton replied, turning his eyes to the floor.

"Were you not listening to a thing he just said?" Idari snapped. "He said that he wanted to be called Martin!"

"I also, Idari, said that you two ought not pick fights with each other..." Martin growled, his teeth gritted. "Let's get going straight away."

The ride back was swift and the conversation between them was sparse, except for Jauffre to point out a path that was used by the Blades or an old ayleid ruin which was said to be haunted by liches and the like. Jauffre rode his own horse, a chestnut stallion, and Martin was gifted a bay horse by the Dunmer Eronor to aid him on his journey while the stablehand got to work digging graves for the deceased. Brother Piner did not regain consciousness for quite some time and Eronor denounced him as dead for a while, until Idari resurrected him with a swift kick to the stomach and a deafening whistle in his ear. Bruma was colder than Idari had remembered it the second time she visited it and it got her wondering whether they _actually_ intended to freeze Martin so alchemists could bring him back in the future, but regardless of this both Jauffre and Martin seemed unaffected. Martin offered Idari his cloak one evening when he noticed her shivering at the base of the Jerall Mountains but her pride always forced her to reject any help from anyone, however noble their intentions were.

When they arrived the snow was falling thickly from a deep purple sky which was silhoueted with large rocky mountains here, there and everywhere. As soon as Jauffre announced the arrival of a new heir to the Septim throne the Blades all scrambled to greet him, raising their swords in respect and taking time out from their busy schedules just to meet the lost Emperor. Martin shied away from all the attention and retreated sourly to his room almost immediately after the celebration was over as Idari prepared her stolen paint horse for the ride to Cheydinhal.

"Take my horse," Jauffre offered once he'd dismissed the other Blades to return to their posts with a newfound spring in their steps. "I don't trust you with it, but I know that Martin wouldn't want you to die out here and I know that your horse looks as if it'll die at any moment."

"Don't trust people," Idari whispered in a voice which was barely audible to the Breton. "They'll let you down every time." Though nevertheless she begrudgingly accepted the chestnut horse which was faster and in much better condition than the paint horse that had borne her from Bruma to Cheydinhal to Chorrol to Kvatch and back. It had more than served its purpose by now.

Jauffre grinned in realisation. "You're Morag Tong, aren't you?" he exclaimed, as if pleased of his discovery. "You've got to be..."

A smirk spread rapidly across the Dunmer's face as she swung herself up onto the chestnut stallion and descended the stairs to the gate with the Grandmaster following dutifully. "Oh, I don't know, the Morag Tong wasn't really my scene," she explained, her voice dripping with sarcasm and a sickly sweetness like honey. "All the blood, the guts, the legality..."

"That explains your going to Cheydinhal then. Since there's no definitive proof I can't arrest you, but you keep your Brothers and Sisters away from Cloud Ruler Temple and I'll have no problem with them. I know their work a mile away, but this is different and I'm happy to work with assassins to catch assassins if it's all for the greater good... Yet I can't tell you to trust me to keep your secret a secret so I won't. Should you get a contract in the Imperial City, be sure to visit Luther Broad's and speak to an old acquaintance of yours who's been looking into these robed assassins to avenge the Emperor's death. He holds himself responsible since he was the only survivor of the attack, save a Dunmer female with a terrifying bloodlust in her eyes who would rather go unarmed than search a corpse for a weapon."

"The Redguard," Idari interupted swiftly. "I'll look in if I get the opportunity, but I can't guarantee anything to you within the next month... I'm kind of booked up of late. Martin wants this, Turner wants that, Jauffre demands this, Lucien demands that. I can't be in two places at once, and certainly not Bruma and Cheydinhal at the same time, I mean, come on! I am not the Nerevarine and I wish people would stop treating me like a bloody was! I don't want that. Anyway, I'm wanted elsewhere, and Martin had better not die after I went to all the trouble to find him for you, only to find that you yourself are perfectly capable of fighting!"

Jauffre smiled slyly. "Was that a compliment?" he asked cynically, laughing heartily.

"Don't push your luck," the Dunmer retorted sourly, urging the horse to walk on as quickly as it was able.

Jauffre watched her gallop down the rocky slope at a ridiculous speed that could have sent any rider flying off of the pathway and into a snow bank at the base of the next mountain along if they lost control for even a second on the icy road. She bent low over the horse's brown neck as she sped around the walls of Bruma and out of his line of sight. The Grandmaster sighed heavily and shivered as the cold mountain wind brew between the wide gates of Cloud Ruler Temple, contemplating carefully exactly how many years it had been since he had visited this place and how much longer again it had been since they had housed an Emperor there as well. Then again, it wasn't every day that an Emperor was assassinated and his only surviving - and illegitimate - heir was just metres away from a massive Oblivion Gate; it wasn't every day that a Daedric Lord planned to cross the Void into Tamriel, and the Prince of Destruction no less, so therefore it was not every day that he was forced to trust a racist Dunmer assassin with the future of his world. But there weren't many more options this time around.


	6. Scheduled for Execution

___Author Note: OK, sorry this chapter took so much longer than the others. I've been away for a week on army camp and didn't take my laptop so I haven't had a chance to write. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, especially DualKatanas - your comments have not gone unnoted. Also CallumDaGrouch123 - don't worry about it, I'm sure you can just salvage what was good and tale the story in a different direction. It's a pain when that happens to people, so all I can say is don't give up writing, OK? If anyone has any plot suggestions don't be shy about it, tell me and I'll consider adding it in - it's one of the joys of writing spontaneously_

_**Disclaimer: While I might change the personalities of the characters slightly to suit my own purposes, I still don't own them. If I did I would be a much richer person... and also American... and also work for Bethesda... Oh, how different things would be**_

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Chapter 6

Turner gazed across Lake Rumare with a fearful feeling set deep within his heart. This was his first contract with his new family and he was going it alone for the first time. Once or twice he'd accompanied a family member on a contract by way of training, learning most about stealth from Telaendril - the Bosmer he so detested - and most about brute force from Gogron - who he also hated passionately after being crushed into a wall.

It was good to be near water again though. In Cheydinhal he'd swam in the river several times until the Captain of the Guard, Ulrich Leland, had put a fine on that and he was forced to stop. The lake looked inviting but Turner was forced to tear his eyes away from the glistening blue water and turn back to the dingy grey sewer grate. Vicente had given him a key to open it and he fumbled around in the many pockets of the tight leather armour which he had once coveted.

At his waist sat the unfamiliar feel of a single iron dagger which he'd found in the Sanctuary Training Room and spirited away in the hope of using in some contract or other. He had often found himself wondering how Idari had carried so many the day that he'd met her back in Baenlin's house in Bruma. He pushed open the sewer grate slowly and it screeched loudly, leaving a film of green slime on his black gloved hand.

The sewer was dark, dank and dingy, filled with mud and broken crates. Turner had never visited the sewer before and knew that, considering his contract, he was likely to be the only person to break _in_ to the Imperial City Prison.

His target was a Dark Elf named Valen Dreth with a fast tongue but a slow body who would apparently be easy to kill, according to a vampire. He'd been promised a reward if he managed to kill to target without killing any of the guards, which was easier said than done and meant that he would probably have to get through the Prison unseen because, following the death of the Emperor in the tunnels beneath the Prison, the number of guards had been increased and they were actively patrolling the area.

Scaling the sewers was not the hard part for the Argonian. There were low-key creatures in there which couldn't harm a fly, let alone a partially trained assassin, a mudcrab or two and maybe a rat here and there, but nothing more sinister than that. He had learnt a couple of new spells while in the Sanctuary which served him well in the sewers, and another more powerful invisibility spell which he planned to use once he reached the Prison proper. M'raaj-Dar had taught it to him though, so he half expected it to be booby trapped or rigged so that he would fail his contract spectacularly.

Turner had been a lot of places and done a lot of things, but being arrested and doing jail time had never traversed the list. Vicente had also promised a pleasurable kill on this contract but so far Turner could think of nothing less pleasurable than standing thigh-deep in sewage while being attacked by a disease-ridden rat in near darkness.

The found the high metal trapdoor into the Imperial Prison during his second circuit around the accursed place as Vicente had failed to mention that there were stairs to be climbed to reach it. It look rusty and covered in black slime as if prepared to squeak its very heart out so that he would be caught by the patrolling guards, yet surprisingly it lifted easily in the darkness and didn't make a sound. Turner crouched next to it for a long time until his legs went numb from the waiting and the pins-and-needles in his feet became near unbearable and he had to move. Summoning every ounce of magicka within him he attempted to cast the invisibility spell that he'd been given by M'raaj-Dar and wasn't at all surprised when it didn't work. It seemed the unfriendly Khajiit had sold him something which he would have to wait many more years to have the ability to use.

Instead he reverted back to the foolproof spell he had learnt in the Bruma Mages Guild which had served him well while trailing the assassin in Baenlin's house almost two weeks earlier. In a blinding flash of light all sign of his body disappeared from sight and he began to slowly creep forward as a guard holding a flaming torch rounded the corner and continued his route none-the-wiser. The rooms Turner suck through were clad in stone from ceiling to floor and in the middle great stone pillars held up the heavy prison above. To the right of the second room Turner noticed a small side-room which contained a tired looking captain scrutinising evidence nearby. The Argonian could only assume that this was the room where the Emperor had died and a cold shiver ran down his spine fiercely.

However he continued on resolutely, renewing his invisibility spell as he passed through each door until he reached an old prison cell. On the floor lays piles of bones and a small table played host to a wooden plate and wooden cup, yet the prisoner was absent. Across the hall a guard was talking to a prisoner with an intensely annoying voice that dripped across the walkway and flooded Turner's ears involuntarily. He cringed at the sound and stood motionless as he waited for the guard to leave so he could complete his contract and return to Cheydinhal for his reward. The minute the guard had left he pulled out a lockpick and began trying to figure out how to pick a lock; he cracked it on his fourth attempt and grinned proudly at his handiwork as the gate swung open loosely.

The Dunmer noticed him instantly as his invisibility spell dispersed into the air about him. Dreth looked old and frail but he didn't half like to ramble away. "Hey, lizard! You've picked your cell door! I'm surprised you managed such a feat but perhaps you'd help out your old friend Valen Dreth?"

"Can it, ashborn," Turner growled in reply. He had had lessons in being menacing from both Vicente and M'raaj-Dar, though mainly the Khajiit had taught him how to insult everybody nearby. "It's your lucky day! You will be getting out of here... straight into the Void."

The look on the prisoner's face was enough to make the whole contract worthwhile, Turner felt. He would take all the risks again just to watch the expression cross the Dunmer's face just once more. Valen grabbed the bars of his cell door and began to shake them aggressively. "You dare torment me? Valen Dreth?" he demanded sourly. Obviously his ego was as strong as his tongue, but Turner had come to expect this from Dark Elves since meeting Idari. "Let me out of this cell, you fetid piece of Guar dung!"

The Argonian lashed out through the cell door at the shouting Dunmer and caught him full in the stomach with his iron dagger, burying it deep. Dreth looked down at the dagger in his stomach with a shocked expression plastered across his face and staggered backwards, dripping his warm blood across the cold stone floor, before collapsing into a heap. Turner pulled his hand back through the door only to notice a large gash in his right hand through his shrouded armour from where he'd nicked himself with his own blade and realised in horror that leaving the knife behind would lead the guards to deduce the killer's identity. Still in shock from having killed someone intentionally he fumbled wildly towards the pocket containing his lockpicks, smearing his own blood all over himself accidentally and losing two drops onto the floor. He shook as he tried to open the cell door and broke all his remaining lockpicks, smudging his blood with his foot and shivering in terror.

He glanced around in fear for where to go. He couldn't go backwards because the guards behind him would notice the trail of blood drops leading back through the tunnels and he couldn't continue onwards for lack of lockpicks. Turner cursed at all the gods he could remember the names of that he had forgotten to bring a healing potion with him.

Suddenly he noticed the small table at the end of the corridor and ran to it. His heart leapt out of his chest as he noticed the two keys lying abandoned on it next to a wooden bowl which sat empty and he swept them up in his left hand joyfully. The Argonian raced back to Dreth's cell door and jumped in fright as the body of the Dark Elf shifted with a groan, losing more precious blood across the floor with each jerked movement. Valen Dreth moaned in pain but Turner saw the hardened look in his eyes and knew that he was going to have to finish the prisoner off or he would likely make a full recovery and identify his attacker. Turner inserted one of the keys into the lock and was startled to find that it fit first time and turned easily.

Crossing the cell lightly he sidestepped the pool of blood that was forming around Valen Dreth who, Turner admitted, was putting up a valiant survival effort given the circumstances. The dying Dunmer lashed out in Turner's direction with a sharp kick, but the Argonian was faster despite his own injuries and flung a shock spell towards the body almost instinctively. The corpse convulsed involuntarily and lay still finally leaving the witless assassin to remove his bloody dagger and head up the corridor to freedom.

He cast an invisibility spell and shielded his bleeding hand as he left the Prison District, running towards Lake Rumare with a determination which was new to him and not stopping until he had swum almost halfway across the vast body of water. He hoped sincerely that he wouldn't come across any Slaughterfish as his diluted blood flooded into the water around him along with the blood from his iron dagger of his victim. When he was satisfied that his wound and weapon were clean he swam down to the bottom of the lake and sat on the floor for what seemed like hours contemplating his contract. It had been successful and he'd not killed a single guard but somehow the prospect of having intentionally killed someone struck him as so alien that he couldn't quite believe what he'd done.

The journey back to Cheydinhal felt like a blur as he rode Idari's paint horse across the countryside, and the rain pelted threateningly into his back and whipped his face by way of punishments for his evil deeds. In fact his mind didn't stop spinning until he entered the Sanctuary late in the evening of stormy Middas and collapsed to the floor, losing hold of all his senses instantaneously so that he didn't even feel himself impact.

When he awoke Ocheeva and Vicente were standing over him as he lay in a warm, dry bed deep within the Living Quarters. The Argonian wore a concerned expression while the vampire almost seemed to be smiling so that he bore his sharp fangs for all to see around him.

"Dear Brother, how do you feel?" Ocheeva asked warmly, acting as a mother would to her child.

Turner's mind swirled wildly and then cleared so quickly and vividly that he vomited into a basket which had been placed next to his bed, groaning loudly.

The vampire smiled further. "It seems, Sister, that our dear Brother was not yet ready for his first kill. However he executed his contract correctly, and fulfilled all of the criteria to gain the bonus as well, so perhaps I did not make a mistake after all. I have no more contracts for you Brother. Your last contract from me was nearing its expiry date, so I sent Teinaava instead. You needn't worry, it was not a contract that required any killing, instead merely staging an assassination. I believe Ocheeva may have more contracts for you if you feel ready for it."

"Give the boy a chance to recover, Vicente!" the Argonian objected, shooing the hapless vampire from the room indignantly. Then, turning back to Turner, she said: "Brother, you were bleeding when we found you. Would you like a healing potion?"

Turner glanced down at his right hand, which was bound in a blood-soaked rag temporarily. He grimaced and nodded, swallowing the entire contents of the potion bottle in a single gulp and flexing his fingers as he felt his flesh and skin knitting themselves back together.

"You'll be right as rain in a couple of hours, Brother. Now tell me, how did your first contract go?"

He had to dig deep inside of himself for an answer to her simple question. "Sneaking in was easy," he whispered at a pathetically low volume such that the female Argonian was forced to crane her neck to hear him. "I stayed invisible so the guards didn't see me, and when I reached the target I threatened him and then I stabbed him. He didn't die properly... He fell but he survived and he bled and bled and there was blood everywhere and I cut my hand and then there was more blood and I broke my lockpicks and Dreth tried to move and bled and bled and..."

"Brother, it is not unusual to be disgusted at the sight of blood on a new contract such as this. We can't all be vampires," Ocheeva comforted him with a slight chuckle and an amused glance towards the passage she'd sent Vicente down. "If blood traumatises you then maybe you can find an alternative method of killing. I have a contract which involves swapping a medicine for a deadly poison, if you're interested... There is also a contract to find and kill a High Elf in the Imperial City, but I was planning on giving that one to Antoinetta since she hasn't had a contract in a while and perhaps then we'll all have a break from her cooking. What do you say?" She moved to sit at the foot of his bed and smiled warmly.

Turner forced himself to sit upright. "I think I could manage a poisoning. What does that entail?"

The Eliminator's grin widened. "Far to the east in Fort Sutch a warlord named Roderick lies in a high fever, kept alive only by a medicine which is given to him daily by his faithful band of mercenaries. This warlord is your target, but in order to receive your bonus you must not be seen by any of his mercenaries. Roderick will take his medicine as usual and then will suddenly slip away... and it will be as if you were never there."

"Very well, Sister. I will set off soon enough," Turner replied respectfully, dragging himself out of bed wearily and beginning to pull on his now repaired leather armour. Ocheeva nodded curtly and stood to leave, her golden eyes shimmering in a gentle triumph.

Almost as soon as she'd left Vicente reappeared next to the wooden dining table and caused the poor Argonian to nearly leap out of his skin, hitting his knee on his chest and falling to the dusty floor with a thump and a loud curse.

"Sorry to startle you, Brother," Vicente grinned, trying not to laugh as Turner scrambled back to his feet with his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "There was just the small matter of your reward for your last contract... Ocheeva is wise, but she sometimes forgets a vampire's ability to remain undetected. Here," he produced a small bag of coins and a pair of simple scales. "Your reward of 300 septims and the Scales of Pitiless Justice. It is unfortunate that we will not be able to work together any further, but I have a proposal for you."

"I'm listening," Turner croaked, snatching up the bag of money and the scales, which he really didn't see any need for anyway. He wasn't paying as much attention as he ought to have been since he was far more interested in the bag clenched between his fingers and its precious contents.

"As a vampire, I have the ability to pass on my... gift to whomever I deem worthy. While we have only worked together on a single contract, I feel that to mark the end of our partnership it is appropriate that I offer you the chance to have my unique gift extended to you. What do you say, Brother?" Vicente's enthusiasm was sickening and Turner recoiled in surprise at his suggestion.

"Become a vampire?" the Argonian asked slowly, watching the Breton's expression carefully now that his money was lying ignored next to his leg. "I can't even deal with seeing blood and you expect me to drink it? Besides, don't the tenets ban you from killing me? Becoming a vampire is dying, right?"

Vicente brushed his suggestions away with a flick of his bony wrist and the simple word: "Technicalities!" Turner shuddered at the thought of waking up with fangs and a bloodlust. "Besides, Brother," Vicente added after witnessing the expression plastered across the unfortunate Argonian's face. "You would not feel a thing for I can turn you while you sleep."

The Argonian raised an eyebrow. "I'd rather not, Brother. I kind of... _like_ being alive and the thought of blood repulses me. Maybe some other time?"

The vampire grinned. "Such a shame," he said with a voice devoid of all emotions. Turner couldn't tell whether he was angry or not and the thought frankly terrified him. "Still, my offer shall remain open in case you... change your mind. As an Argonian it is unlikely that you will be able to receive my Dark Gift any other way, so I beg you to think of the advantages to vampirism."

Turner thought carefully and all he could think about was a weakness to fire and an inability to go in the sun without acquiring substantial damage as well as other side effects like everyone hating you and trying to drive a stake through your heart. "No," the Argonian shook his head. "I'd really rather not... And I have a contract that needs doing so farewell for now."

Turner pushed one scaly arm into the tight leather armour and then the other before tightening the various buckles so that it fit comfortably and strode swiftly from the room, hoping the vampire would never again try to persuade him to become one himself. By doing a little digging he knew that the Breton had become infected with vampirism over 300 years ago while on a expedition to Morrowind and had served Sithis for almost 200 of them, so surely he must have offered his 'gift' to many Brothers and Sisters and had many refusals, so Turner didn't feel quite so bad about rejecting the offer the more he thought about it.

He visited Ocheeva briefly in her room to pick up the bottle of poison that was required for his contract and prepared himself to leave. "Brother," Ocheeva said to him as he ate an apple which had been lying on the wooden table near the door. "Accept this key to the well so that you may access the Sanctuary more easily. This way you will not need to enter the abandoned house to gain entry. Though guard it carefully, for should the key fall into the wrong hands then we will all be sentenced to death by Count Cheydinhal. He is bribed to keep his mouth shut about us, but were our location to become public the agreement would be nullified and he would have no choice but to arrest us all. It is a great honour to have this key, use it wisely."

Turner nodded and snatched the key from Ocheeva's hand a little over-zealously so that he almost flung it back over his shoulder and would have done so had it not become tangled on his little finger as he flicked his wrist. Ocheeva stifled a giggle as the other Argonian hastily dropped the well key into one of the deep pockets of his armour. "Dear Brother," the female couldn't help but point out as a result. "You will need the key to get out."

His golden eyes widened and he mentally kicked himself for having made such an utter fool of himself as he reached his fingers back inside his pockets to fish the evasive little thing out again. Determined not to embarrass himself any further, he unlocked the hatch to the well at the first opportunity and ascended the rickety ladder into Cheydinhal. Climbing out of the top of the well was easier said than done and Turner decided that it was not designed to be done gracefully as he heaved his limbs over the edge, getting his left leg stuck in the top of the well and crashing to the ground with a loud curse while he remained suspended upside down. He thrashed out with his free leg to try and loosen the other from its bonds which proved thoroughly futile until he kicked it with such force that the wood splintered and sent him sprawling onto the grass as the rest of the structure collapsed under its own weight.

Turner sighed and edged away suspiciously, pulling his dark hood over his face so that the guards that came running to check on the noise didn't notice him as easily. Just as he snuck around the back of the neighbouring house he backed into something which caused him to jump out of his skin and snap around defensively.

"Only you could have failed quite that epically," the Dunmer standing before him grinned evilly.

"By Sithis! I thought you were meant to be reporting to the Speaker!" Turner gasped in shock. "Why in Mara's name are you here?"

Idari grinned still further and glanced around the Argonian at the pandamonium forming around the well as guards and townsfolk ran towards the crashing sound to investigate. They'd never find the sanctuary without a key so she wasn't worried but she was pretty sure that they'd seal off the well entrance and then the whole sanctuary would have to use the front door instead. The thought of Vicente sneaking out of the abandoned house was simply so funny that she found herself chuckling maniacally as the Argonian glared at her angrilly.

"Lucien can wait," she replied simply, brushing her brown hair out of her eyes. "I came back to see if you'd died yet."

Turner's temper snapped. "And why would you care?" he demanded. "If you wanted me dead that badly you could have killed me! The tenets didn't stop you killing me then and they don't stop you killing me anymore so go on, kill me."

This sudden outburst caught the Dunmer off guard and for once she was actually at a loss for words for a good minute or so. "Killing you would really be no fun now..." she whispered eventually, though it didn't quite have the effect she was aiming for as her usual threatening demeanour was shattered. "Have you been on any contracts?" she asked in a feeble attempt to change the subject.

"Just one, and I was on my way to one now before you turned up. I broke into the Imperial Prison and killed a prisoner; now I'm on my way to poison a mercenary warlord. Anything else?" Turner replied tersely.

Idari raised an eyebrow slightly. "You broke _in_? I suppose they told you why the tunnels were locked?"

The reply was short and simple: "A prisoner broke out."

"Did you know the Emperor died in those tunnels?" the Dunmer pressed on, aware that his answers were getting shorter by the second and he obviously didn't want to talk to her.

"I guessed that he had. There's an investigation going on down there."

"And did you know who was with the Emperor when he died?"

"Why does it matter?" she received through gritted teeth.

"Just answer the question," Idari continued, her voice finally resuming its usual threatening tone as the raucus around the well cover grew louder when Ulrich Leland tried to fine the townspeople for the broken well cover.

Turner sigher heavily. "I imagine his Blades were there as they guard the Emperor... Fat load of good they did. Probably the prisoner who escaped as well, they only called her the Hero of Kvatch in Bruma and to be honest I didn't really care. I still don't now. I need to get on with this contract."

The Argonian turned on his heels and strode off towards the west gate of Cheydinhal for the long ride to Fort Sutch. Idari was not used to this sort of treatment since most people were so scared of her - or offended by her - that they listened to every word she had to say before shrinking away to bury their heads in the sand. It seemed to her that this Argonian had grown up and toughened up more quickly than she'd have imagined and she stood pondering this revelation until someone cleared their throat loudly behind her. She spun on the spot to find herself face to face with a Breton guard who had a mop of black greasy hair and a malicious snarl on his face.

"There's a fine for loitering," he spat at her (literally. She felt his saliva splash across her face with a shudder of disgust.) "Fifty Septims," he demanded with his hand outstretched greedily.

"No way!" the assassin growled.

"And threatening a town guard! OK. Guards, this citizen is resisting arrest!" he yelled at the mob of guards nearby.

Idari knew that she could easily have fought every single one of them off but wasn't too keen on the idea of a murder bounty being placed on her head by this ridiculous Breton who seemed to be conjuring fines and charges out of his head, so instead she raised her hands in surrender.

"But sir, this is the Hero of Kvatch!" one of the Imperial guards stated as they got a good look at her.

"I don't care! Arrest her!" the Breton insisted, waving a sword that he had drawn in her direction.

"I'll pay the fine," Idari decided, throwing a bag of sixty gold coins just beyond the reach of the Breton so that it fell to the floor just behind him, spilling a stream of gold across the grass, and sprinting back out of the east gate of Cheydinhal. The guards didn't persue her since she'd pay the fine, but the humiliated Breton grew red with rage as he clawed up the bag of coins and stormed miserably back to Castle Cheydinhal to be alone with his money.

Outside the city the Dunmer set her sights on the ruined fort at the top of the hill immediately next to the city's walls. "Great hiding place you've got there Lachance," she sighed, rolling her eyes, as she trudged sourly up the large hill to meet with her Speaker.


	7. Permanent Retirement

_Author Note: Personally I dislike this chapter a lot, but let me know what you think about it. It's too short, it's terribly written and it's a bit weird... but it's necessary for the plot, because I need a reason for Idari to go to the Imperial City and this quest provides it. So, I should say to everyone - in particular DeusExfreak - that I have not ignored your advice, I just didn't like writing this chapter. Also I got halfway through and my annoying little brother turned my computer off with his feet, so it was much better the first time I wrote it... but that's lost in cyberspace now :( Thanks to all reviewers/readers. Bear with me, it'll be back to normal next chapter alright..._

_P.S. also should add that Idari's emotions change pretty quickly because she's a pretty unstable character, so one second she's happy and the next she's angry. I might write other characters like this - and I'm not meant to - but it really only applies to her... You should know if this applies to you_

_**Disclaimer: I own Oblivion! Yeah... Right... I wish... Curse you Bethesda**_

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Chapter 7

Lucien Lachance tapped his foot impatiently and the sound echoed through the eerie chambers of Fort Farragut. His new Silencer was late, which was hardly a good sign, and would most likely blaze a path through his home and kill all of his Dark Guardians which had been doing their job of keeping intruders out for many years. He sank back onto the small wooden bed and began to inspect his dagger closely for lack of anything else worth doing.

His foot stopped tapping as he heard the slamming of the wooden doors to the fort and the clanging of steel against steel and bone. Lucien waited as the sounds died out and picked up again once, twice, three times with each growing closer than the one preceeding it. The Speaker sheathed his dagger noiselessly and rose to his feet smoothly, brushing his long black robe with the back of his hands and cracking his knuckles with a sharp crack in an attempt to appear spontaneously evil before his new Silencer. It wasn't very often he got to make a first impression on his newest underling and he wasn't about to let this opportunity go for the world.

At the sound of the creaking gate that kept his Dark Guardians out of his private living area opening he turned to see his Dunmeri Silencer standing squarely towards the edge of the drab stone room. He smiled at the sight since his Guardians had obviously put up a valiant fight to protect him, as he hoped was the case, considering the two long gashes in her shrouded armour, one in her left shoulder and the other thrust through her right side, revealing her dark blue skin and shimmering with red blood. Yet she made no move to heal herself by either potion or spell, and still further did nothing to hide or disguise her gaping wounds.

"You're late Mortha," Lucien pointed out after waiting over a minute longer than he was prepared to. "I gave you two weeks."

"You knew I would be late," the Dunmer spat back at him in a voice that almost struck fear into his cold, murderous heart. "You knew you'd sent me on an impossible task. You, the Black Hand, know everything in Cyrodiil; when a murder occurs you know about it, that's how you recruit. Your Night Mother sees everything and hears our prayers for which Sithis demands blood. You expected me to get from here to Chorrol, to Kvatch, to Bruma and then back here within two weeks? Seriously Lucien, get real!"

The Imperial attempted to recover himself quickly and, as a master of deception, he almost achieved it but his Silencer had seen his emotions betrayed across his face for a moment longer than he had hoped and _she_ succeeded in hiding her own feelings of amusement at the fact that she had managed to intimidate a professional murderer. Of course, her amusement still did nothing to improve her mood; the Argonian's treatment of her and her near arrest had put her into a foul mood swing, and the irritating Dark Guardians had left her with some painful wounds to nurse just as soon as she was out of Lucien's line of sight. She would never show such a weakness to such a man, he'd only use it against her.

"I have a contract for you," Lachance stated mysteriously, pretending to smooth his robes to avoid her eye contact for a minute or so. He intended to resume his normal mocking tone shortly but had yet to find the correct moment to do so.

Idari fixed him in a cold stare. "Well of course you have a contract for me! I wouldn't be here otherwise!" she snapped back at him. "Who are you sending me after then? And I'll get out of your hair."

"Sit down," the Speaker insisted, signalling for her to sit on a wooden chair pulled up to a wooden table. "We have things to discuss." The Dunmer obliged his request unwillingly and he felt the balance of power returning to its proper placing. "It is not often that a Murderer is promoted to Silencer. They are usually watched on many contracts before the Speaker makes their final executive choice into who they wish to do their bidding. However these are dark times, not only for the Brotherhood but also for Tamriel, and you have been known to us for many years following your initiation into the Morag Tong. How old were you when you were initiated? Fourteen? The Brotherhood were sent to recruit you - not me personally, I'm not _that_ old - but the Morag Tong got there first... they are _based_ in Morrowind after all. Eight years in the Morag Tong and then you come here, just up and run. As you know there is a traitor within the Brotherhood, an assassin among assassins, and we believe that we may have found the source of the traitor and therefore they must be flushed out... _permanently_. However first we have a test of your loyalty to the Black Hand... Do you know the name Adamus Phillida?"

"Of course I do!" she exclaimed angrilly in reply. "He's the bastard who threw me in jail!" Lucien was glad she seemed to know at least a little about her target, it would surely help her in her contract.

"For many years Adamus Phillida has been a thorn in the side of the Dark Brotherhood. We have tried to get rid of him before three times but each time he has survived and redoubled his efforts to destroy us. There is no prayer for his soul but the will of the Night Mother if we are to protect our family. He is a powerful man, and now after forty years of service to the Legion he has retired to Leyawiin but Sithis refuses to allow him this victory..." Lucien turned to the wooden table and picked up a single arrow, presenting it to the Silencer who sat on the upright wooden chair. "The Black Hand has sanctioned this arrow - the Rose of Sithis - for Phillida's assassination and it will kill him in an instant if he is hit, but it cannot pierce armour so you must... be vigilant. However Sithis does not care _how_ Phillida dies, as long as he dies, so you may kill him however you see fit. To receive a bonus you must send a message to his successor that the Dark Brotherhood are not to be trifled with; take the finger that bears his signet ring from his corpse and place it into the desk of the new commander of the Imperial Legion in the Imperial City. Then we shall know your loyalty to the Black Hand."

"Fine," Idari replied, rising from the chair and crossing half of the room before Lucien had even time to realise what was happening. "Adamus Phillida will suffer, mark my words. _Nobody_ throws Idari Mortha in jail without paying the full price for their pig-headed actions. No time limits this time, I have things that need doing in the Imperial City. Watch the Black Horse Courier if you wish to know what is happening. Farewell Lucien."

She seized hold of the wooden slats of the rope ladder leading to Lucien's so-called 'secret entrance' (she assumed that this was the way that he managed to enter his own home without having to fight his way past those confounded Dark Guardians and wondered why he'd never told her about this entrance before) and sprung up the rungs precisely. Her wounds gaped slightly and she lost more blood with each movement. Lucien admired her persistance as she didn't even flinch at the obvious pain she was feeling; he'd had wounds in those places himself and knew what they felt like even some years later. In fact, that was probably at _his_ last run in with a Dark Guardian when he was promoted to Silencer.

"Mortha," he called after her as she fiddled with the heavy metal trapdoor in his roof. She stopped fiddling with a sigh and slid her legs through the ladder to sit on the top rung, glaring down at him. "I... um..." The Imperial stopped, confused as to why he couldn't find the words he wanted to say. "I can give you a horse, if you need one."

"Show me," Idari commanded, throwing open the trapdoor and jumping out into the hollowed out tree. The Speaker glanced around his dark living area and decided quickly that he probably had little else to be going on with.

He showed her his own personal horse, Shadowmere, a powerful steed with a sleek purple coat and burning red eyes. "You can take her to the Imperial City if you want..." he told her, stroking his precious horse gently. "She is a fine horse... the finest in all of Cyrodiil. If you take her you may even make your deadline," he added with a grin. The Dunmer scowled at him and her eyes burned furiously, the horse whinnied loudly in response and Lucien immediately wished that he hadn't offered the splendid animal to such a temperamental mer.

"Thank you for your offer Speaker Lachance, though most creatures that get close to me don't survive very long," Idari replied amicably, though the anger in her flaming red eyes was utterly unmistakable.

"You needn't worry about Shadowmere. She is a valuable asset and she can hold her own in a fight..." Lucien paused and glanced up at the darkening dusk sky above Fort Farragut. "Listen Mortha, I was wondering... you needn't dash off now... have a meal with me?"

The Dunmer laced her fingers together and leant across the horse's back with her chin resting on her hands. "Oh Lucien," she replied mockingly. "You expect me to eat with you? Well, you aren't the only one who's been doing your research. I know all about your past too, do I need to elaborate?" Lucien bit his lip and raised his eyebrows slightly. "Fine," Idari continued. "I'll tell you what I know... You were born in High Rock near Jehanna in 3E403 to a Breton father and an Imperial mother - it's pretty obvious because you have a Breton name and yet you're an Imperial. You joined the Brotherhood when you were just thirteen years old - and that's younger than I was when I started killing so it stuck in my head - when you killed a man who insulted your mother with a poisoned dagger. From what I hear you were a promising one as rose through the ranks more quickly than most and were one of the youngest members of the Black Hand _ever_ at the age of twenty-five, that was until I came along. You took over as Speaker of the Cheydinhal sanctuary about a year ago and here we stand now. I know your record with poisons and I know your record with women, and because of these two reasons I am _not_ going to share a meal with you, now or ever. Good day Lucien."

"You have been doing your research," Lucien smirked gleefully. "I'm impressed, Miss Mortha. I don't make a habit of poisoning my Silencers though, especially not with the traitor about."

Idari swung her leg over the horse's sleek purple back and rested comfortably in the leather saddle before replying. "And how do you know _I'm_ not the traitor?"

"The traitor started killing before you joined the Brotherhood... before you even reached Cyrodiil. You're one of the few people who's exempt from suspicion. Now about that dinner..?"

"Lucien, there are three reasons _at least_ why I won't eat dinner with you: one, you're an Imperial and all Imperials are so far up themselves that I'm sure they have no idea what the sun is (you're also half Breton and I hate Bretons on principal); two, you're so damned cocky that I'm sure the only reason you wanted me to be your Silencer is so that you could sleep with me, which you're _not_ going to be doing; and three, you can't expect me to go kill a mark if you're 'entertaining' me - or probably more likely that I'm entertaining you - here, so please stop wasting my time."

The Imperial grinned. "My next time then..."

"In your dreams, Lachance," Idari replied, spurring Shadowmere on back down the hill towards Cheydinhal. She was immediately struck by the comparative speed of the horse against all of the others she'd ridden before and the power of its graceful limbs as they pounded into the rocky soil.

On any other horse the trip to Leyawiin would have taken almost two weeks, but Shadowmere cut the entire journey down to eight days with far fewer stops than were necessary for a regular horse. By the time she reached Leyawiin, Idari had decided that Shadowmere was probably not a horse at all, but some kind of mystical creature trapped in a horse's body... It was probably the best explanation, and it was probably done by a Daedric Lord who enjoyed a good joke... Sheogorath or Sanguine or Clavicus Vile maybe...

She stabled the fine animal in Five Rider's Stables, pickpocketing some money from the owner to use to pay for the insurance of the horse's welfare, and strode through the gate into Leyawiin proper. Her decision that the best place to start looking would be the City Watch Barracks proved more fruitful than she'd anticipated because, after asking directions from one of the guards at the gate who frankly looked bored out of his brain, she found Adamus Phillida strutting about just outside the place and heading for the Coast Guard Station as he often did in the mornings. Idari stalked him out of the gate and wondered just how she was going to make the old man suffer for what he did to her. She may have deserved it, but nobody locked Idari Mortha up, _nobody._

Her heart raced as she closed in on him. The Rose of Sithis would kill him instantly, but that wasn't good enough. He didn't deserve a quick death, or an easy death, or a one way ticket to the void. She considered the weapons she had with her as to which would be suitable for the demise of this detestable man.

On her right hip was the iron shortsword she'd used against the Dark Guardians in Fort Farragut. She'd cast a weak restoration spell on her journey to Leyawiin but her wounds still hurt and her muscles still ached from the unexpected battle just to see her Speaker. Across her back she'd slung an Akaviri katana which she had lifted from the training area of Cloud Ruler Temple during her short stay there; it was a one-handed blade and probably ought to have been held at her hip, but she knew that if she attached it to her left hip she would fumble with her less dextrous left hand and lose valuable seconds against even the simplest of foes.

She had decided the katana was the better bet of the two weapons before she began her approach towards her mark, simply because it was less damaged and of much better quality than the other. The inhabitants of Akavir, though not mer, had many influences throughout Tamriel: the blades adopted Akaviri weaponry and their base, Cloud Ruler Temple, was built in an Akaviri style, the symbol of the Dragonborn - a dragon encased in a diamond - was also the symbol of Akavir; but the mer of Tamriel had lost contact with the inhabitants of Akavir years ago after the Battle of Ionith - Idari's father had often told her of the exploits of the Akaviri inhabitants and their continent. The Tsaesci, a race of vampire snakes, are supposed to have eaten any of the mer that ever inhabited the continent.

Personally Idari had never cared for history, especially not of a continent that she was never going to see, but her father had always drilled it into her and her two brothers and had ruled their household with the utmost standards of respect and discipline. Everyone else could see that it was just so he could advance within House Telvanni.

Adamus Phillida was parading about the Coast Guard Station in his fancy, polished armour as any stuck-up Imperial would, his faithful bodyguard always no more than three steps behind him and ready to jump into action at the sign of the smallest threat to his mark. The bodyguard would prove no challenge though, the Dunmer decided, summing him up in an instant, he was a youthful Imperial upstart and probably hadn't been on the job for very long since he still took his position seriously. Idari knew that he would eventually get bored and his standards would slacken, but she didn't have the time or the patience to wait that long.

"I recognise you from somewhere," Phillida stated as she drew nearer, and his bodyguard jumped at his sudden engage with the stranger that he had failed to notice. "But I just can't place it..."

The Dunmer stared at him coldly from underneath her dark hood. The man stirred up a great deal of hatred within her but the thought of her revenge made her giddy with pleasure. She had always been bought up that way, if someone were to wrong her she was to kill them. Now murder stirred no emotions within her, except when it was in revenge in which case the emotion was one of joy; death was such a part of her everyday life that it rarely even affected her anymore.

Phillida tapped a foot impatiently. "Yes, well I'm a very busy man," he snapped. "Enjoying my retirement and all that. Why don't you just... go away?"

As the Imperial turned his back on her she immobilised his guard with a power paralysis spell. Her original plan had been to kill the bodyguard, but it seemed so much more fitting for him to know his failure by knowing that his mark had died on his watch. Phillida himself didn't even notice as the Dunmeri assassin followed him into the Coast Guard Station instead of his Imperial bodyguard. Idari closed the door behind her with a satisfying click and glanced around the shadowy building hopefully, finding it deserted except for Phillida and herself.

"You really should have recognised me, pig," Idari mocked, drawing the katana from her back and holding it firmly. She also noticed that she was conveniently blocking the door in case Phillida decided to run like the coward that he was.

"Assassin!" the old man declared, drawing his weapon in an instant. "I should have known they'd come after me!"

"Sithis needs your soul," the Dunmer replied sinisterly so that he would know exactly who was getting the better of him. "You never should have locked me up, you old fool. I hope your soul rots in the Void."

"Sithis needs my soul, eh?" shouted Phillida angrilly, bringing his sword round fiercely. Their swords met with a resounded clang of metal against metal as Idari blocked his attack easily. "Well you can tell your Dread Father that he can kiss my wrinkled arse!"

The fight was quick and violent, and Idari would have rather it had lasted longer, but Phillida's age soon got the better of him and he slowed with each passing blow until he dropped his sword in a valiant surrender.

"Like I said," Idari repeated, enjoying the fearful look emblazened across the Imperial's withered face. "You should never have locked me up. There was no contract for your death, Sithis demanded your blood because you persued his Dark followers. Perhaps the message here is that you should have left well enough alone. Enjoy your afterlife..." She swung the katana down and severed Phillida's right hand in a single mighty blow, causing him to roar with agony. Aware that she would soon be doused in his blood, she drove her blade home through his chest up to the hilt so that the other end of the blade protruded through his back and he vomited his own blood. As the assassin withdrew her blade his blood flooded out after it and covered the brown floor in an ever expanding pool.

She picked up the severed hand gingerly and wrapped it in some valueless cloth that lay strewn across a dresser so that she could carry it without seeming too suspicious, then she exited the Coast Guard Station and crossed the the paralysed bodyguard.

Crouching next to him she whispered quietly: "Know eternally that it is _all_ your fault that Phillida is dead. If I were you I would join him in the Void at the first opportunity since you will be hated eternally for letting such a celebrated Cyrodilic man die on your watch. I'll bet you're sorry you ever accepted this job... Well I'm not going to kill you, Sithis doesn't want _your_ soul, but the Night Mother will be listening if you need any help..."


	8. The Path of Dawn

_Author Note: Well firstly I'll say sorry this took so long. I thought that, with the summer holidays, I would be writing quicker, but I seem to be writing more slowly now with more distractions. Thanks to DualKatanas and DeusExfreak who reviewed anyway! This chapter... is a bit weird at the start and I apologise for that, but I'm happy with the end of it and it's a BIG improvement from the last chapter. I should say that I will eventually get back to Turner, but now that I've taken this in a slightly new direction I need to do one more chapter with Idari at least... I was also thinking of maybe adding a new character into this, but I don't know where to, and I haven't exactly finalised this yet... I should also point out that the beggar's speech pattern changes suddenly deliberately, my way of getting back at Bethesda for making the beggars have a different speech pattern to normal Imperials and managing to have them switch between the two. It annoys me a lot. I should add that I don't hate Imperials, I just enjoy taking the mick out of them. If anybody has any suggestions about this story then feel free to tell me via review! Happy reading... And also twenty points for the person who tells me the name of the quest that is featured at the end of the chapter!_

_**Disclaimer: The Elder Scrolls is way too cool to be owned by me, but I must say that Oblivion is much easier to play than Morrowind... I hope TES5 is better still *hint hint Bethesda*. Anyway, I don't own Oblivion or anyone you recognise (If you paid attention to every character in the game).**_

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Chapter 8

The Imperial City was an impressive place, arguably the most splendid place in all of Tamriel. On City Isle in the middle of Lake Rumare, it was the capital city of both Cyrodiil and Tamriel. From there the Emperors ruled at their Imperial seat of the Imperial Palace and the White Gold Tower. Around the Tower the city itself was split into six sections which formed a circle and around them the Arcane University, main headquarters of the Mages Guild, the Waterfront District, the poorest area of the Imperial City, and the Imperial Prison, a place Idari hated more than most places.

However the first stop she had to make was a trip to the Imperial Prison to deliver Phillida's severed hand. Lucien had told her to put a finger bearing a signet ring into the desk of his successor, but somehow placing the entire severed hand wrapped loosely in cloth was so much more striking and would leave a much more lasting impression. She had also, admittably, brought the signet ring with her as well, for identification purposes.

What use was the severed hand if they didn't know just _whose_ severed hand it was?

Breaking into the office in the Prison District was a simple matter of picking the lock while the guards were too busy looking in the wrong direction and slipping inside. The tan coloured cloth was wrapped so loosely around Phillida's hand that the blood hadn't even seeped through, though that may also have been due to the fact that she'd washed the hand in the Niben River on her journey up to the Imperial City. She didn't like the idea of carrying around a potentially disease ridden hand that had once belonged to one of her numerous enemies.

Idari Mortha snuck across the room silently; her years in the Morag Tong and later in the Dark Brotherhood had forced her to hone her sneaking skills to near perfection and each step was naturally executed with precision. Upon reaching the large wooden desk she gently tried to open the upper drawer and, finding it locked, had it open in a few seconds. She placed the hand inside the drawer, unwrapping the fabric around it for what she considered maximum effect, and slid the door shut. Then, exiting the building, she set off for the Elven Gardens District and Luther Broad's Boarding House where she had been told to meet up with the Redguard who was there at the Emperor's assassination with her.

Being back in the city after such a long time was a strange feeling. She had no patriotic feeling for the Emperor of Cyrodiil, but witnessing his death was something she was glad which she would never have to witness again. Of course he'd obviously seen something in her which she'd never seen in herself because he'd trusted her enough, he'd 'seen her in his dreams' - though, she suspected, it was more likely a nightmare than any average dream - and he'd told her how to save Cyrodiil.

As much as she hated the Nine Divines, the circumstances begged even her to question whether they had some higher purpose for her on this small planet. But getting philosophical was a stupid idea and didn't help her to fulfil the prophecy of the dying Emperor. He had to have been right, right? Even Idari couldn't deny that he'd predicted his own death.

The Elven Gardens District in the Imperial City was full of not elves, but Bretons and Imperials. Idari stood in the centre with her arms folded wondering why the idiots had let these foolish commoners move into the _Elven_ Gardens District instead of _real_ elves. Even a Bosmer would have been better than this rabble!

Eventually though she sighed and roughly shoved open the door to Luther Broad's Boarding House. Behind the bar was an old looking Imperial with a shock of white hair and occupying one bar stool sat the Redguard that she recognised from the sewers looking twice as ridiculous in common clothing than he did in armour. Also an unimpressed looking Breton sat alone in the corner, glancing around shiftily. If he wasn't bad news then Idari didn't know who was.

As she slipped into the bar stool next to him, the Redguard growled, "Took your bloody time. Now in a minute I'm going to walk out of here. That Breton in the corner will follow me and I want you to follow him, understand?"

The Dunmer scowled at him but made no reply, so he felt free to execute his haphazard plan. Sure enough he was right and the Breton did stand up and follow him into the basement. Idari questioned his intentions. To be honest, Idari couldn't think of a place she would less like to be in at this precise moment and stayed rooted to the stool just to spite the Redguard a little further. After about five minutes - a suitable lag time, she thought, for anything interesting to have happened or to have begun - she stood up nimbly and walked down into the basement.

The Breton lay mangled at Baurus' feet, pierced through in at least three places by the katana in the Redguard's hand and very obviously dead beyond recognition. Silently kicking herself for not having been there to witness the fight, Idari raised an eyebrow casually. "You could have told me there would be a fight..." she pointed out sarcastically.

"This Breton was sent to kill me!" Baurus objected, kicking the corpse with the edge of his shoe to indicate his disgust. "He had the same bound armour as the assassins that killed the Emperor. I thought, since the Emperor had such high opinion of you, that you might actually take the fate of Tamriel a bit more seriously! You've been gone almost three months!"

"I've been busy."

"Doing what?" the Redguard exploded angrilly. "What could be more important than saving Tamriel from certain destruction! Get your priorities in order!"

"Well... all isn't lost," Idari suggested unhelpfully. "I found Martin..."

The anger in Baurus' face lessened slightly. "Well thank Talos for that," he said slowly with the hint of a sigh of relief. "But he still can't be crowned Emperor until we've found his father's assassins and taken care of them. Search the corpse for any clues."

"No," the Dunmer replied, crossing her arms again. "You killed him, you search the corpse. Besides, Martin couldn't be Emperor anyway... We lost the Amulet of Kings..."

"What?" Baurus yelled again, his face turning red with anger. Idari was glad that she had a great ability to keep a straight face, because somehow this didn't seem like the right moment to be laughing at him like she was internally. "What did you do with it? Drop it in a lake? The Emperor gave you one simple task and you botched it up!"

"Keep your hair on," she retorted sarcastically, resisting a further urge to burst out laughing. "Well _I_ didn't lose it. I gave it to Jauffre and he sent me off to find Martin and then _he_ got attacked by assassins and _he_ lost the Amulet... Look, that Breton has blatantly got some kind of book in his pocket, get it out."

The Blade stooped and gingerly picked up the blood soaked book. The cover has purple underneath the blood, but the pages were matted together too greatly to be read.

He glanced down the spine of the book to read the title. "Mythic Dawn Commentaries Volume 1..." he read out loud. "Then this is worse than I expected... A Daedric cult..." All the anger seemed to have flooded out of him like a burst balloon and his skin seemed to be taking on a paler tone. "You said Jauffre was attacked... Did he survive?" Idari nodded stiffly, she wasn't exactly pleased about that fact. "Then the Nine have not completely abandoned us... You should take this book to the Arcane University and show it to Tar-Meena, she's an expert on daedric cults and should be able to tell you more about the Mythic Dawn."

"The Mythic Dawn worship Mehrunes Dagon... There was an attachment of them in Morrowind, but they were based here in Cyrodiil. My elder brother was interested in Daedric cults before he was killed. The Commentaries are supposed to show the way to their base if you have all four of them, but Three and Four are very rare so you'll have to do some searching Baurus."

"Let me guess, you have somewhere better to be?" the exasperated Redguard asked with a deep sigh. "How did your brother die then?"

Idari's red eyes narrowed suddenly. "It's none of your business. That's how they do things in House Telvanni, if you aren't good enough or if you get in their way then you're easy game and you get killed. My brother was useless layabout with a big mouth and father thought that bloody Secunda shone out of his arse! Had to open his big mouth, didn't he? And upset one of the Telvanni councillors, got challenged to a dual in the Arena in Vivec and lost. Stupid fool. My younger brother disappeared too, it was the only honourable thing to do. If Father found out what had happened... Anyway, I need to get out of this city. I'll meet you at Cloud Ruler Temple in a couple of weeks time since nobody in this bloody province seems to be able to do anything for themselves around here without someone holding their hand."

"So you aren't going to help?"

"I can't stand this city, but you find out where the Mythic Dawn are hiding then I'll go and scout the place out as any of you Blades would probably get killed," the Dunmer smirked. "I've seen _your_ version of fighting, and at least you did slightly better than the other two; you survived at least so you must know something more than they did. Even your captain died pretty easily so I suppose the training you Blades receive must be awful..."

Baurus shrugged aimlessly. "Well by your standards maybe, but from what I hear Blade training is among the best in all of Cyrodiil. Maybe in Morrowind you're taught more thoroughly... at least I assume you're from Morrowind as you're father was House Telvanni. You should get going if you want to get out that badly."

"I'll do that then," she replied, raising an eyebrow and turning to leave. "Happy finding the Mythic Dawn."

Idari strode rapidly out of Luther Broad's basement and across the boarding house to the wooden door. The Imperial eyed her strangely as she walked past and she looked down to see her feet splashed with the blood of that dead Breton. Cursing violently she left the tavern and ran through the Elven Gardens District quickly, almost tripping over a pair of Imperial women who were gossiping needlessly in the middle of the pathway.

Apparently she looked too shifty running along as she was stopped by a pair of Imperial Legion Officers in gleaming silver armour. Both men were Imperials and reminded her annoyingly of Adamus Phillida; last time she'd been stopped by a guard she'd been thrown into prison for it... excluding her run-in in Cheydinhal with the obviously corrupt Guard Captain.

"Why are you running, Ashborn?" the first one, who was quite clearly the elder of the two guards, said.

"Is that a crime now?" she demanded back ferociously. "Because if running is a crime then arrest me and get it over and done with."

The younger guard looked at her from head to toe and snarled angrilly. "Your armour is certainly unusual for this time of year, black leather and all, and you're certainly carrying a lot of weapons. Also, if I'm not mistaken, you have fresh blood on your feet. You're obviously running from the scene of a murder, assassin!"

"Fine," Idari yelled, making more of a scene than was at all necessary. "If you've quite finished looking me up you can go and find the dead body of a Breton in the basement of Luther Broad's Boarding House! Along with the explanation. I haven't got time for this." The younger guard seized her enthusiastically by the arm. "And you can keep your hands off me too, I'm capable of walking."

Despite her protests she was still frog-marched back to Luther Broad's Boarding House by the overzealous guards. She decided that they were probably new on their jobs and trying to make a good impression, which explained why their armour was so gleaming. No guard would spend valuable time cleaning something that was going to get dirty again unless they had something to prove. The look on the Imperial innkeeper's face was enough to make her day, however, so she decided that the trip was not wasted.

Baurus was still in the basement trying to mop up some of the blood on the floor with some cloth he'd found handy while waiting for the Commentary to dry so it could be read. He was shocked to look up and find two Imperial Legion guards hovering over him with the Dunmer sandwiched between them and a small smirk clear across her face.

"I can explain this..." he groaned, wondering how his day could get any worse. Then of course he realised that the Emperor's heir could be dead too, and that would have made things much worse.

"Citizen, we suspect this Dunmer of being an affiliate of the Dark Brotherhood," the elder guard stated solemnly, gazing at the corpse as if he'd never seen one before. "She pointed us to this body so we can only assume that she is a murderer."

The Redguard rolled his eyes. "Truth is that I killed this man after he attacked me, so this was probably just her explanation behind the blood on her feet. I'm a member of the Blades and she is working with us for the good of Tamriel whether she'd Dark Brotherhood or not..."

"I'm not Dark Brotherhood!" Idari lied impulsively, then realised that technically she was telling the truth as well as she wasn't Dark Brotherhood anymore. "Anyway, there's your explanation, now I have somewhere to be..."

The younger guard stood stock still for too long and was roughly shoved aside by the departing Dunmeri assassin. She was not impressed about having the leave for the second time in one day and almost sent the poor guard flying into the stone wall. The wooden door slammed shut so loudly as she departed that people asleep upstairs in the boarding house were awoken suddenly .

"This man was a member of the organisation that assassinated our Emperor..." Baurus added in her wake. "The Emperor trusted her for some reason and that's why we need to give her a wide berth. She seems quick to anger, so I suggest that you warn your Legion buddies to leave her be next time."

"You Blades really did a great job of protecting the Emperor," the youngest guard muttered under his breath, frowning at the closed door as if it could really react to him. His companion sharply elbowed him in the ribs to keep him quiet.

The Redguard's expression hardened. "I'm the only surviving Blade who was with the Emperor at the time of his death. Two good soldiers died that day as well as our ruler. Any trouble you have with the Blades should really be directed at me rather than them as it was I who was a moment too slow and not the whole organisation. Now we must focus our efforts on the new Emperor..."

"I heard that all the Emperor's sons were killed that day as well," the elder guard pointed out carefully. He was beginning to regret bringing the Dunmer down here at all.

"They were," Baurus sighed heavily. "But only the legitimate ones. Now gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I have a body to attend to."

Idari Mortha was already crossing Green Emperor Way by the time the Blade had managed to usher the two guards out of the basement. She took care to walk this time and was silently wishing that she'd changed out of her shrouded armour before walking into the centre of the Imperial City looking like an assassin following the Emperor's murder.

The White Gold Tower stretched into the sky above her, an unpleasant reminder of the luxurious lifestyle she'd left behind in Morrowind. She and her two brothers would want for nothing their entire lives, until Sadas died and sent her father into a destructive, alienating everyone. Their mother had continued to mollycoddle her two remaining children until Reron vanished as well. Nobody knew where he'd gone, except his sister Idari.

Shaking the thoughts of home from her head she spurred herself onwards. Reron had left for the good of the family and for the good of House Telvanni, there was no going back now.

She passed into the Arena District on her travels westwards back towards Cheydinhal, until it occured to her that unhelpfully the stables were on the east side of the Imperial City and she swore loudly.

"Bet on a match perhaps," a Bosmer inside the Arena called out to her. "Or perhaps you'd like to compete..."

"Get stuffed treehugger," she replied rudely, turning to find herself face to face with a wanted poster stuck to the city wall.

She read it quickly, a poor description of a man known only as 'The Gray Fox'... Well, the sign only said presumed male, age unknown, average height and a whole host of other useless information that couldn't identify a man standing five feet in front of you.

"The Gray Fox," the Bosmer said suddenly, his voice was grating against her nerves with every word. "The beggars are his eyes and ears. Scary, isn't it? Captain Hieronymous Lex has made it his personal mission to catch him but somehow the Thieves Guild manage to outsmart him every time."

"The Thieves Guild?" she asked carefully. The Thieves Guild in Morrowind wasn't quite so... wanted. "And the beggars are his eyes and ears, you say?"

Her gaze hadn't averted from the poster, but she could tell that the Bosmer was getting excited at the prospect. "I get anxious just walking past the beggars now, since they put these posters up everywhere! Now I sleep in the Arena instead of going home at night, just in case I run into one of their guild lackeys on the way there. A lot of the Arena combatants do the same. Are you sure you wouldn't like the enter the Arena as a combatant?"

The Dunmer turned to face the Bosmer with eyes as sharp as daggers. "If I ever enter the Arena as a combatant then you must be absolutely sure to have enough combatants of a good enough skill level to face me. My guesses are that you don't." She walked towards the large wooden gate and began to push it open. "Besides, the Thieves Guild aren't what you should be afraid of, treehugger, everyone knows that their charter prevents killing someone on a contract."

By the time Idari reached the Talos Plaza District the sun was beginning to descend lazily towards the obscured horizon again and the two moons were becoming visible in the darkening sky. However instead of heading to the stables to recover her possessed horse she hung around beneath the statue of the dragon that stupidly resembled the Avatar of _Akatosh_ in the _Talos_ Plaza District. Obviously the Imperials had gotten their Divines mixed up when they'd named the districts of their capital city.

The beggar was an Imperial and not a young one at that. She followed him as he dragged himself back to his bedroll. In reality he probably did quite well in his living as a beggar considering he lived in the richest part of the richest city on the continent and seemed much more nourished than some of the others she'd seen before; he asked several of the snobs for money on the way back and made a fair deal of money out of it from people just wishing he'd go away. He was using some sob-story about being a war veteran half the time and a different one about the children he had to feed back home the rest of the time. It was obvious that he was lying about both.

She pulled her hood over her face before following the beggar into his improvised living space because she knew how easily her temper was likely to snap on this one.

"The Gray Fox," she asked him menacingly. "Tell me what you know."

The beggar's eyes widened and a small smile crept across his weary features. "I can't seem to recall..." he began, cut off by the fact that his breath was knocked out of him as the hooded stranger shoved him against the wall and pressed a knife into his stomach. Suddenly the beggar became much more cooperative. "He's the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild, he gives protection to us lowly beggars and the people of Anvil... I hear they meet in the Waterfront District. Travel to the Garden of Dareloth at midnight!"

"And that's everything you know?" she pressed him for an answer, her knife digging deep enough into his flesh to draw blood.

The Imperial squeaked with fear. "Speak to Armand Christophe! He's a Doyen, he'll have all the information you need to know..."

The woman beneath the black hood grinned maliciously. "Now why shouldn't I kill you?" she asked sincerely. "Someone who might identify me is always... a liability."

The beggar shook as he delved into his pocket and drew out a small bag of coins. "Them's me days takings," he stuttered, pressing them into the hand that was not wielding the dagger. "I never saw nothin', honest."

"Well you'd better pray to whichever gods you worship and thank them that the Gray Fox protects scum like you, but if you ever cross my path again you won't be so lucky, get it? Now get out of my sight!" She hit to terrified Imperial with a powerful drain fatigue spell and he crumpled to the floor unconscious in seconds.

The Morag Tong had taught her to fight and to kill, but House Telvanni had taught her more than her fair share of magic in her time living among them. The heads of House Telvanni, in her opinion, were isolationist prigs who couldn't see past the end of their noses into the grand scheme of things, but they were well-respected wizards every one of them even if they were all too paranoid to attend their own council sessions.

Setting foot in the Waterfront District brought back memories of her first contract with the Dark Brotherhood. Killing Rufio was an initiation, a shamefully easy initiation, but her first real contract had been to kill the pirate captain of the Marie Elena. That had been an easy contract too, and she'd been killing that kind of man since she was old enough to hold a knife, but the mob of angry pirates on the deck had been less than favourable and a lot more than just the captain had lost their lives that day.

Locating the Garden of Dareloth would have been difficult. Nobody could remember where Dareloth's house had been for some reason, but the Redguard standing aimlessly in a green space wielding a less than subtle torch was a dead give away as to where she was supposed to be heading.

"You're Armand Christophe?" Idari asked as she drew nearer to him, ignoring the Bosmer and Argonian who were standing around with a sense of anticipation.

The light from his torch gave her hooded face an eerier edge edge than before and the Redguard was a little confused at first. "Who's asking?" he replied rudely, holding his torch a little closer to her face to try to get a good look.

Without warning the strange figure snatched the torch from his hand and extinguished it with such speed that the Argonian standing nearby had literally blinked and missed it. "My name is of no importance. I was told that I could find the Thieves Guild in this location. Was this the truth?"

Christophe nodded uncertainly. "Indeed it was, stranger. I speak for the Gray Fox but before you can enter our guild you need to prove yourself. Now we have three for the test; Methredhel and Amusei already know the details but I'll recap them again for our newcomer. Your task is to steal the diary of Amantius Allectus from his home here in the Imperial City. The first of you to do so will be welcomed into the Thieves Guild openly, however there are rules that you must obey. Firstly, you cannot kill anyone on this task - we're not the Dark Brotherhood, if you're looking for murder you're going to have to go elsewhere - secondly you cannot kill each other, but you can hinder one another in whichever way you see fit. I'll be here from midnight until 2am every morning until one of you brings me the diary and I have a supply of lockpicks should you need any. Any questions?"


	9. May The Best Thief Win

_Author Note: OK, I'm sorry if there are any spelling mistakes in this. I tried to use an online spell checker and got annoyed by the time it told me 'colour' was spelt wrong and promptly lost all of my changes. Clever. I tried to write this chapter a little slower than usual to make it better, and I think I succeeded in the slower but I'm not sure about the better right now. Let me know. Thanks to DeusExfreak for reviewing the last chapter and for the great advice, as usual._

_I'm thinking of adding a couple more characters soon, and I wanted to change the summary because it's awful, I know... I was also thinking of rewriting the 1st chapter eventually because it sucks. Any help would be appreciated, however small ~ARTY~_

_**Disclaimer: I think I've given up on depressingly saying I don't own Oblivion at the beginning of each chapter. Take this disclaimer to mean that I don't own the rest of the story.**_

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Chapter 9

The female Bosmer took off at a far greater speed than any of the onlookers had expected while the Argonian began only at a steady jog. Idari quickly decided that the Argonian was going to pose absolutely no threat to her admission to the Thieves Guild and sprinted after the athletic Bosmer.

While she had no idea where this Amantius Allectus lived the Bosmer seemed to have a pretty good idea, and while she was a fast runner her speed was nothing extraordinary so the Dunmer assassin had no trouble tailing her right up to the unfortunate man's door. The Bosmer even picked the lock for her.

The spritely Wood Elf began to sneak across the ground floor towards the desk where the diary was presumably kept; Idari didn't see the point in sneaking since there was nobody around to see or hear her cross the room and sprung deftly over the table to land directly in front of the desk. Opening it she found the book and slid it into one of her pockets, smirking at the expression on the Bosmer's face.

"May the best thief win," Idari grinned as she shut the desk and made her way back towards the door.

The Bosmer scowled. "Your name?" she asked in a low voice. "I usually make a point of knowing who I'm being beaten by..."

"You first," she received as an answer from the hooded Dunmer.

"Methredhel."

"Well Methredhel, you should know that, by asking me my name, you have no idea who you're dealing with here. My name is of no importance, history does not remember names it only recalls our deeds. I am the Hero of Kvatch, perhaps one day the Gray Fox, the Listener, the Grandmaster of the Blades, the Grand Champion of the Arena, a god? How am I to know? But I assure you, that whatever happens my name will be lost in the fabric of history and you will not remember it. You have heard the stories of the Nerevarine?" The Bosmer nodded in confusion. "I bet you this diary that you can't remember her real name."

"Of course not," Methredhel objected. "The names don't make it into the stories... Do you know her name?"

"That's just my point!" Idari stated enthusiastically. "You can't remember the names of the great historical figures because they never make it into the history books, or into the lore of Cyrodiil. People only remember the titles. The Gray Fox, what do you know about him? Nothing. Nobody can even remember what race he is. Perhaps some day you will be a Master Thief, or a Doyen; people remember them because they are just the messengers to the real legends, but after they die they are forgotten, left out. Make a name for yourself, but don't tell them your name, keep them guessing... And the Nerevarine was a Nord named Melda Strongarm."

"How do you know that?" the Bosmer replied in shock.

"Just because something isn't written down doesn't mean it never existed. You may not know my name but I'm here before you. She was Hortator of House Telvanni when my father was rising through the ranks... He kept records of the members so they knew who was and wasn't permitted within Sadrith Mora... He had very nosey children," she finished off with a smirk. "Anyway, I must get on returning to Christophe. I really can't afford to still be here tomorrow night and I'm guessing I have about half an hour to get back... Remember Methredhel that you need to really make a name for yourself. It'll be easy in this Oblivion Crisis, shut a few gates, save a few people... The Blades need members if you're interested. Tell that Argonian to do the same if you see him. Tamriel isn't going to save itself."

With those last words said Idari ducked out of the door and ran full pelt back to the Garden of Dareloth where Armand Christophe was standing with his re-lit torch in exactly the same position as when she left him. He seemed agitated and ready to go home but remained like a statue as she drew closer, hugging the shadows created by his torch so that she was entirely hidden from his view until the last moment. The city had been dead as she'd run back and not even the guards had been alert enough to notice her haring past them.

"You have the diary?" the Redguard asked suspiciously. "Already? I wasn't expecting anyone back until tomorrow night..."

Idari fished the diary from her pocket and presented it to Christophe with a smirk. "I have somewhere I need to be. Stalling isn't an option. So I take it that's me in, right?"

"Yes, you have passed the test and therefore deserve your initiation. You are now a pickpocket, but you'll have to prove yourself as a thief a bit more before we give you any special assignments. You may use Ongar the World Weary in Bruma as your fence and once you've fenced 50 gold's worth of loot you can return here for your first task..." Armand told her with a sigh. "I was pretty sure Methredhel was going to return with the book after I saw you run off, but I'm sure you deserve it if you brought the book back. In the Thieves Guild rules are that you must not kill anyone on a contract and you must not kill any of you fellow thieves; you may steal from anyone but the beggars, the Gray Fox protects them, and the people living in Anvil Castle are not to be harmed in any way... Nobody can remember why the Gray Fox protects the people of Anvil, but it's just a rule that we are bound to follow. Kill anyone and you'll have to pay a bloodprice to me, and I can also get rid of any bounty on you if you pay me half the gold."

The new pickpocket grimaced. "Bruma?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "Everything's in Bruma it seems. I'm going up to Bruma in a couple of weeks time so I'll see what I can go there. Until then you needn't worry about my location. Now I have somewhere else to be. Farewell... And you should know that it's fairly obvious to everyone around that there's some kind of a meeting here if you hold that torch. Since one of the guard captains is after the Gray Fox you might consider something a bit more subtle."

Despite her weariness due to lack of sleep and energy, the Dunmer ran all the way back to the stables just outside of the Imperial City and patted her fiery horse gently. The other horses seemed to be cowering at the opposite end of the stable and Idari could only laugh at the prospect that the horse was, in fact, quite fearsome.

Shadowmere didn't make a single sound as his tired owner led him out of the gate and swung a leg over her back, nor did he object to his newest owner resting her head upon his powerful neck and seemingly falling asleep. His previous owner, the Imperial man in the long black robes, had always taught him to return to Fort Farragut if he was left and this seemed like a valid time to do so. Thus the black horse ended him reign of terror over the smaller horses in the Chestnut Handy Stables and took his sleeping owner all the way back to Cheydinhal unaided.

Idari awoke with a groan as the morning light flooded into her eyes to find herself somewhere entirely different to the place where she'd laid her head down for a short break. On first glance the place seemed vaguely familiar but she just couldn't put a name to it... She couldn't even tell exactly how long she'd been sleeping but it seemed like a while judging by the distance her horse had brought her.

In the distance the walls of Cheydinhal loomed majestically and the Blue Road ran up to meet it like a loyal subject. Shadowmere veered off the path and trotted around the city walls towards Fort Farragut; Idari was happy for having the horse however extraordinary it was.

As soon as the horse came to a halt at the top of the hill and the Dunmer climbed off carefully, walking slowly towards the hollowed out tree, seemingly lacking in her usual energy. She pulled the metal trapdoor open and descended the rope ladder into her Speaker's home silently. Lucien himself was sitting at a desk and appeared to be reading some sort of scroll in the dim candlelight.

"You really ought to get some proper lighting in this place, Speaker Lachance, you'll ruin your eyesight..."

The Speaker didn't jump in shock or anything of the sort but merely blinked steadily and continued to stare at his roll of parchment. "I wasn't expecting you back so early..." he said eventually, though he provided no other reaction to her presence.

"Well next time I'll just wait longer before coming back, shall I?" Idari replied, though the snappy tone in her voice was much less sharp than usual. "Anyway, I hate that city and everything about it, I had to get anyway and that ridiculous horse decided to bring me here while I slept..."

Lucien's eyes narrowed slighty, and he turned to look her straight in the face, leaning on the back of the chair with one arm. "You slept on Shadowmere? There aren't many people on Nirn who've done that and lived to tell the tale... Let alone who've ever _wanted_ to try it in the first place. He must like you or something."

"Can't imagine why. Horses are useless creatures and their aren't any on Vvardenfell because of it..."

"Ah, Vvardenfell," the Imperial reminisced with a slight smirk. "We don't tend to recruit their because of the presence of the Morag Tong, but every now and then we like to go and... shake things up a little," the smirk challenged rapidly into a full grin and Idari rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Anyway," Lucien continued after a slight pause. "You have proven your allegiance to the Black Hand by slaying Phillida and struck fear into the heart of his successor by placing a whole severed hand into the draw, despite my only asking for a finger. I was just reading the Black Horse Courier actually... It seems they found Phillida's bodyguard in the Leyawiin Barracks as well, slit his wrists and bled to death with a suicide note on the desk. Normally I would accuse you of overkill, but this time it seemed entirely appropriate, so you've fully earned your reward and bonus - 500 septims."

The Dunmer caught the bag of coins as he threw it to her and tossed it up and down lazily in one hand. "Not much reward for such an important task. Was it meant for someone of lower rank, or are you just a cheapskate?"

"It was meant for someone of lower rank than you. Also, since your rank is only known to the Black Hand, it seems that we are not required to pay you for your services to us anyway. Your payment is the maintained possession of your life," Lucien grinned darkly. "Anyway, I have a new contract for you, one of the utmost importance. Are you interested?"

Idari pocketed the bag of coins and folded her arms expectantly. "Go on," she commanded.

"You know about the assassin among assassins within the Dark Brotherhood, and the traitor has been traced back to within the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. As a result the Black Hand have ordered a Purification, an ancient right which is reserved for only the bleakest of times. You, as my Silencer, are to perform this Purification: Antoinetta Marie, Gogron gro-Bolmog, Telaendril, Teinaava, M'raaj-Dar, Ocheeva and Vicente Valtieri must all die." He had accentuated each passing name with a broadening grin and a growing anticipation and had obviously saved the two highest ranking members of the sanctuary so that they might be the pinnacles of his list of death. He was also slightly disappointed when the Dunmer did not react beyond a blink and her usual hard stare.

"And what of the newest recruit?" she asked flatly, her voice unwavering.

Lucien's frown showed clearly that he had forgotten about the new Argonian completely. "Do what you want with him," he replied in an equally flat tone. "He does not need to die because, like you, he joined the Brotherhood after the traitor became active and a recruit as pathetic as that obviously poses no threat to us, but you can kill him with the others if you wish to..."

Idari scowled angrily. "And exactly how do you know that the traitor is a member of the Cheydinhal sanctuary? Aren't there other sanctuaries around? Aren't there members of the Brotherhood which I've never even heard of that could easily be the traitor? What makes you so sure that you're right?"

"These drastic actions were sanctioned by the Black Hand. Best you remember that our word is not to be questioned," Lucien snapped at her with a dark expression on his face. "For this task I offer you an apple laced with a poison that will bypass even complete poison resistance and a scroll containing the spirit of Rufio, the unfortunate man that you silenced in the Inn of Ill Omen; his body may have been frail but his spirit is aggressive and vengeful. Do with these items what you will."

The Dunmer accepted the apple and the scroll unhappily, secretly imagining her Speaker bursting into flames and grinning darkly at the image in her head. "One apple for numerous targets? And a scroll with a limited duration? I think I should prefer to kill them in the old fashioned way, with a blade and destruction magic. Anyway, do you wish to impose a time limit on this contract, or should I just complete it in my own time?"

"The Black Hand wants this done as soon as possible," the Imperial stated drily. "Report to me here when you're done. Your next contract involves a trip to Bruma, so you needn't worry about your numerous tasks which you ought to be doing right now rather than speaking with me here. The Blades will definitely need your help, but that Redguard seems capable of keeping himself alive at least for now..."

"You should stop spying on people Lucien, they don't appreciate it," retorted Idari sourly. "Anyway, I have somewhere to be. As soon as possible implies right now. If you wish to ask me to have dinner with you - the answer is most definitely still no - you can do so once I return from the sanctuary. You have nothing to worry about, the Purification will be dealt with smoothly and efficiently. Expect my return briefly." She turned sharply on her heels and began to climb up to rope ladder to the trapdoor, allowing thoughts of her newest contract to career swiftly through her mind.

She was still thinking about it as she remounted Shadowmere and as she rode down the hill towards Cheydinhal entirely unnecessarily since the town was literally at the base of said hill.

"Go in, fulfil the contract, get out," she repeated to herself again and again. "It's the same as any other contract with multiple targets really... A ditzy Breton, a Bosmer archer, an Orc warrior, some twin Argonians, a Khajiit with an attitude problem and a vampire Breton, plus an extra failure of an Argonian if I feel like it... Oh gods, killing a vampire?" She decided that it was probably a good idea to stop talking to herself about killing someone considering her previous run in with the guard captain of Cheydinhal and the likelihood that he would still hold a grudge against her.

Foolish Bretons.

The well cover was still destroyed which was obvious by the piles of wood stacked around the well and leaning against it unstably. This led the Dunmeri assassin to assume that Turner had not actually returned to the sanctuary yet or had not dared to enter via the well again. Instead of drawing attention to herself, Idari decided to enter covertly via the abandoned house. She may have never been given a key personally, but that hadn't stopped her lifting one from Ocheeva once her relinquishment from the five tenets was made clear to her. It was an awful shame about having to kill Ocheeva.

As she entered the abandoned house and looked at the age old cobwebs the gravity of what she had been sent to do finally hit her hard and her knees buckled slightly beneath her so that she almost fell face first onto the dusty wooden floor. Gripping hold of the dilapidated table for support until her knuckles began to turn white she began to regain her balance.

"A vampire? A vampire? I can't kill a vampire!" she repeated to herself over and over again like a broken record stuck in a repetitive cycle. "They aren't alive. They're dead, they're gone, they're..." Yet her reassurance was short lived. "He's a fool," she stated finally, getting a grip on herself. "He's a Breton fool and he deserves to die... Again. He became a vampire 300 years ago, which is long before... It wasn't my fault! I'll deal with this contract just like any other."

She was secretly hoping she could pull herself together before she made it to the ominous stone door with a picture of someone being stabbed - a subtle way to make people think the Dark Brotherhood _didn't_ live in the abandoned house in Cheydinhal - so that she didn't enter the sanctuary proper sounding like a blathering neurotic in early stages of dementia and paranoia... Funnily enough, she'd once used that description for her father, except that she expected by now the early stages were long past.

Perhaps one day her father would reach the rank of Mouth and be granted his own Telvanni stronghold, as was his life's goal... His only daughter, along with his wife and his one surviving but estranged son, suspected that his psychosis would take hold long before he ever reached this goal. Even idiot like Sadas Mortha could have advanced more quickly than her father, but he was never given the chance.

The Telvanni sorcerors were powerful, they could prolong life almost indefinitely - which was the case with their eldest member, Diavyth Fyr, being over 4000 years old - but everyone doubted that even they could cure the psychological damage that had been suffered by one Elvas Mortha when he had once been struck by a severe version of blight disease in an eggmine in Gnisis at a young age.

The entrance hall of the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary sat empty of all except a single friendly Dark Guardian that trawled heavily around the dingy room, draped in scraps a black cloth with a heavy axe still fixed at it's waist and worn black boots brushing against the stone floor. The wounds she had sustained from her last run in with a Dark Guardian sent waves of pain running through her body violently and she cringed noticeably, hoping that there really was nobody around to see her showing such weakness. In Morrowind she could have been incarcerated for such a foolish action, or killed, there was always that, but incarcerated was decidedly worse as it meant one could be ridiculed about it for the rest of their lives.

The seasoned killer decided that, since none of the occupants were hostile, it might be a good idea to scout the area before taking any action as it would take a different plan considering the location of each individual and the size of the groups they were in. A quick glance into the Training room revealed Gogron gro-Bolmog and Telaendril who seemed ironically doomed to die together. The prospect of any form of relationship between an Orc and a Wood Elf had always evoked feelings of disgust in the racist daughter of a psychotic Telvanni and his xenophobic wife. In the Living Quarters she saw Antoinetta Marie and the luckless Teinaava, dragged in to sample one of the overzealous Bretons latest, and last, culinary disasters. By the look and smell of it, a garlic, potato and onion sludge with a side of blackened rat meat which resembled charcoal more than meat anyday. Ocheeva was seated at the desk in her quarters, deeply engrossed in some novel or other to the extent that she didn't even flinch as Idari scooted past. The Khajiit M'raaj-Dar was looming in the shadows of the corridor down to Vicente's room, looking as shifty as ever in his long green robe.

"Foul smelling ape," the Khajiit growled under his breath as the Dunmer strode past him towards the room of Vicente Valtieri in the base of the sanctuary.

"Disgraceful house cat," Idari replied almost automatically. She had long since decided that if the Khajiit insisted on insulting everyone then he should at least think of a new insult every now and then, and had had plenty of time to think of an equally unoriginal retort.

People had always assured Idari that M'raaj-Dar would become less rude towards her once she got to know him, or he got to know her, but she had decided long ago that she really didn't care what anybody thought about her, and he had never, and would never, get a chance to know her properly now that she no longer resided in the sanctuary and had been sent to kill him.

Vicente Valtieri, the Dark Brotherhood's resident vampire, was in his room as usual and enjoying a glass of something or other, though by the looks of it the concoction was likely blood. Truth be told he looked slightly paler than usually and he cringed at the doors being opened.

"That fool Antoinetta," he shuddered, gazing into the bottom of the golden goblet between his fingers. "This is the last straw. I told Ocheeva to warn her about this..."

"Trouble Vicente?" Idari asked cooly, leaning laxly on the doorframe with a smirk. She could tell by the look on his face that she would soon find out about some great weakness that she could use to make her contract easier.

The vampire raised his red eyes to meet hers and then they sank lazily back to the base of the goblet which, it seemed, would be among the last things they would ever see. "For many years now I have been plagued with an allergy to garlic and that idiot Antoinetta insists on using it in her disgusting so-called food. As far as I can tell I'm the only one of my kind to suffer from this weakness, but were I to come in contact with it I would surely lose many of the attributes that come with my gift. Antoinetta is aware of my condition and knows that her failure to comply will surely force me to take drastic action to prevent it happening again."

"Well you aren't as unfortunate as Teinaava, the chef extraordinaire is forcing him to eat the stuff..."

"And what brings you back to the sanctuary, Sister?" the Breton continued, brushing her former comment aside. "We haven't seen you here for quite some time... Come to think of it, we haven't seen your Argonian friend in a while either, so either he's been killed or he's taking far too long on a simple contract."

"Either is likely," Idari conceded. "He's pretty pathetic... I'm actually here on a contract."

Vicente raised an eyebrow. "A contract?" he asked, though he was not evidently as confused as he appeared to be. "And what kind of contract brings you to the sanctuary? Has Antoinetta's cooking finally annoyed even the Black Hand?" The grin was unsanctioned but the vampire continued to smile into his goblet of blood.

"I've been asked to complete a Purification. I take it you know what that is after all these years?"

If he had not been pale already following the garlic smell trailing about the stone halls beneath the abandoned house in Cheydinhal, all the colour would have drained from the vampire's face as that point. "Indeed. I myself was asked to carry out the last Purification over 250 years ago in the sanctuary in Leyawiin. I should have seen this coming. So many Brothers and Sisters have died recently in the service of Sithis that it could hardly be of coincidence and they've obviously deemed one of us the culprit. Very well Sister, you are bound to complete this contract or die trying. Be warned though, completing such a Purification will never leave your memory and will plague you for the rest of your days as it would killing your own family in Morrowind..."

"You don't know a thing about me," Idari growled in reply, drawing the Akaviri katana which still hung at her back with splatters of Adamus Phillida's blood dried onto the blade in the patches she'd neglected to wash. "If Sithis demanded the blood of my family then I would give him exactly what he wanted, no questions asked. Feel free to defend yourself if you want, I can see you itching to draw your own ebony longsword there, but you just told me your weakness, so there's really no point. Enjoy the Void."


	10. The Purification

_Author Note: I know I said I wouldn't post this yet - to DeusExfreak - but I'd finished it and I'd double checked it (I changed a lot of the little details). I also like this chapter a lot. It's by far my favourite so far, even though the end is a bit... odd and Idari goes a bit... mental. Now that Turner's back it might take me a chapter or so to decide exactly what his character is like and how he'd react to certain things, but eventually he'll be as interesting a character as Idari. I know some of the things she said at the end of the last chapter were a bit weird, but they're explained here. Anyway - goddamnit, I'm gonna have to stop writing that - read and review please. Lemme know what you think._

_Also: I've rewritten chapter 1 entirely and posted it. Please tell me what you think of the new version as opposed to the last one, if not by review then by PM. Thanks_

_~I'd like to mark the occasion where this becomes my longest fanfic ever, in a 3rd of the number of chapters of the 2nd place spot. Don't believe me? The Seventh Son *shudder at the awfulness* is 33 chapters and contains about 5000 less words than this~_

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Chapter 10

The Redguard Roderick slipped away painfully one stormy night, his body raging with a high fever and his skin covered in a sheen of glistening sweat, after the administration of a medicine that was supposed to keep him alive by his faithful mercenaries. To say that the mourning was widespread would be wrong, but the four followers bowed their heads in bitter anguish at the loss of their great leader, vowing the get their revenge on the alchemist who had made the medicine some day. They already had their new leader, a woman named Neesha who was also a Cyrodiil-born Redguard and had never set even a single toe over the border into the desert country of Hammerfell.

Nobody suspected that the medicine had been swapped for a lethal poison by a less than stealthy Argonian who had evaded detection on pure luck rather than anything else. The mercenaries dismissed the thumping footsteps as their imaginations when they could not find the culprit.

A weak invisibility spell just never occured to them.

Of course, the Argonian was long gone and high-tailing it back to Cheydinhal long before Roderick passed over to the Void. He was not the type to stay around to witness his handiwork as an assassin disturbed by the vile stench of death.

In truth, he probably would have fainted at the sight of the death which would have been of absolutely no use to him or his cause and lacked both the stealth and grace afforded to an assassin like him.

Fort Sutch was among the places located furthest from Cheydinhal without crossing the Cyrodilic border into another province, of which the Summerset Isles were probably the furthest away, and the weary paint horse that had been given to him by the Dunmer who had tried to kill him on more than one occasion had stubbornly refused to pick up any kind of pace, making the journey home take twice as long as the journey there.

It also hadn't helped that a large Oblivion gate had opened up directly outside Fort Sutch, spooking the horse and forcing her owner to fight all manner of daedra just to get the thing to move at all. Perhaps the fabled 'Hero of Kvatch', whoever she was, would like a tip off to go and close the thing before the soldiers trying to hold off the daedra were all killed in vain.

It was Middas by the time he made it home. Significant for the fact that he had been expected back the previous Loredas, and also significant for the fact that it was one of the only days of the week when every occupant of the sanctuary was allegedly there. The Bosmer Telaendril spent much of the week outside the sanctuary and around Cyrodiil, mostly in Cheydinhal, but sometimes making it as far away as Leyawiin or Anvil if she could arrange the transportation. Of course, everything was different when people were out on contracts, so there was really no way of knowing just who was going to be there to greet him when he made it home.

What did greet him, however, was the far opposite of anything that he had expected.

Upon entering through the abandoned house - he still didn't trust himself with that well - he was met with the same sights as usual: the stone entrance hallway and the creaking Dark Guardian still making the rounds that he never quite seemed to finish; then, of course, there was the blood splattered across the stones and the wooden doors that seemed to still be wet and fresh, and the doors to the Training Area were slightly ajar and riddled with arrows that seemed to have been fired from the inside.

_Funny_, Turner thought,_ I'm not exactly sure that those were there before._ Then it began to dawn on him that something might be amiss.

His first frantic thought was that the guards had found the sanctuary because of his foolishness in breaking the well cover, but then he realised that the well grating was locked and the door required a password, and that the guards would still be patrolling the area in search of any stragglers or survivers. There would also have probably been a guard outside the abandoned house and stationed at the well to question passers-by about anything they might have seen or heard or anything they might know about the shady goings-on inside.

He pushed the door to the Training Room open - which required an unusual amount of effort - and his fears were confirmed as he saw the bodies of Gogron gro-Bolmog and Telaendril in pools of blood and riddled with grievous injuries that probably caused their downfall. The Bosmer was slumped behind the door with her body seemingly almost cleaved in half by a powerful blade while the Orc was thrown unceremoniously across the floor with his throat slit but no other injuries. Turner quickly realised that the Orc must have been surprised and killed before either had had a chance to react and the killer, having just taken on a fully grown and heavily armed Orc, had simply turned to finish the job by silencing the considerably smaller Bosmer archer. That also explained the arrow barbs sticking through the wooden door. They had obviously known their killer.

Turner's heart raced as he exited the room and began to run about the sanctuary frantically, looking for survivors to this heinous attack.

Ocheeva was dead, obviously hit with a powerful fireball spell due to the burns on her scales and the fact that her dagger had not even been drawn in defence. Yet more evidence that they had known their attacker, as Ocheeva was a master with a short blade and had reflexes not often gifted to an Argonian such as herself. Her eyes rolled in death as she seemingly sat leaning against her own bed as if she were alive. Turner shuddered at the thought that he had almost mistaken her for being alive until he had seen her vacant expression and her charred skin.

M'raaj-Dar lay spread eagled around the corner at the base of the corridor, a gory wound through his middle where a powerful sword had been thrust mercilessly and withdrawn quickly to spray his innards across the passageway and allow his last vision to be of his killer before he hit the cold floor and succumbed to Sithis' dreadful call.

The vampire Vicente Valtieri was still seated at his table as usual, though instead of the look of shock worn on the dead faces of the other corpses, his expression was almost one of understanding, as if he knew why he needed to die. His own ebony longsword was still sticking through his chest and out the other side, nicking the chair behind him and holding the body fast where it was. The only blood was spilt from a goblet on the table, which was the only item that had been disturbed in the entire room. Vampires, being dead already, do not bleed.

Turner had lost any hope for the lives of his remaining Brother and Sister. If Vicente and Ocheeva had been cut down separately and Telaendril and Gogron had died together then there was no hope, not even a thread of it, for the lives of the Breton and the Argonian that he had not yet discovered the bodies of short, of course, of them being the assassin among assassins that Idari had spoken to the Speaker about in which case Turner understood that there would be no hope for his own neck staying attached to his body. He somewhat doubted this idea, however, since Teinaava would never have been able to kill his own eggmate and Antoinetta lacked both the skill and the cunning to pull off such an operation without being found out and eliminated herself.

Odds were that they were stone dead too.

In his shock he ran straight past the katana-wielding Dunmer sat huddled in the shadows in the corner of Vicente's room without even a flicker of recognition. The Dunmer however, was far more observant than he was and couldn't have failed to notice the unsubtle Argonian if he were invisible and fifty feet away.

The Living Quarters were far more peaceful and far less bloody than the other areas of the sanctuary. In fact there was no blood and the sickening smell of blood and corpses was lost in the air of garlic and onions that was so strong that it made the Argonian want to burst into tears and vomit at the same time. The bodies of Teinaava and Antoinetta Marie were laid across the wooden table almost as if they were asleep among the culinary 'masterpieces' that could only have been thought up by the famously bad Breton cook. On the floor beneath the table lay two halves of the same apple with a bite taken from each half. Turner suspected that it was probably poisoned, which struck him as unusual, since Argonians like himself were born with a hereditary resistance to all poisons.

The proper thing to do would have been to check for the killer and then to mourn the loss of his fallen friends. The proper thing to do would have been to bury the bodies and give them some decency in death. Maybe even the proper thing to do would have been to report the losses to his Speaker and to move on to another sanctuary in another town.

But Turner did none of these things. He drifted almost subconsciously back to the entrance hall and sat at the single chair wondering intently why he hadn't fainted yet at the sight of all the blood and guts and wondering exactly where the killer was now. It was probably the shock making him partake in these unusual actions, he decided, and the truth would probably rear its ugly head in an hour or so. So instead of leaving, like he had the niggling feeling that he ought to, he remained in the chair helplessly and waited.

The only thing that alerted him to the presence of the Dunmer assassin was a sound unlike one he had heard in a very long time. Still pumped full of shock and adrenaline he retraced his steps back towards the room formerly belonging to Vicente Valtieri and, ignoring the dead body at the table, took a proper look around this time. She made no more attempt to conceal herself than she had the first time he'd passed through, but this time it just wasn't enough to evade detection.

"I should have known you'd be behind this," he spoke calmly, aware of the flash of her blade in the light cast by a dying candle but strangely unmoved by it. "I suppose you should make a proper job of it and kill me too..."

The Dunmer he had once upon a time been terrified of stepped out of the shadows with a look on her face that he'd never seen there before. If it was anyone else it could have been mistaken for remorse, or regret, but he knew that she would never feel any emotions like that, it wasn't in her nature. There also seemed to be streaks on her face from the light which could have been mistaken for tears on a lesser mer, but Turner assumed that it was more likely perspiration from tackling seven well trained opponents in a single action; it could also have been blood from the victims or from her own body, even she wasn't superhuman enough to take on seven people without sustaining a single injury.

She took a step forward with an air of slow calculation and then sheathed her weapon, much to the Argonian's relief. "Your fate belongs to Sithis," she said simply, and when she spoke her voice sounded far from it's usual smooth cockiness. In fact, Turner could have sworn it sounded as though she was choking back tears, or had recently been crying, which couldn't possibly be true, right?

"A contract?" he asked, bewildered. He couldn't believe that he was seeing any softer side of this hardened Dunmer assassin, and brushed it aside as his own imagination. "Was it a contract to kill them all?" To add emphasis he gestured to the impaled corpse of the Breton vampire which he could have sworn caused the Dunmer to pale beneath her hood.

She nodded. "A contract," she replied, as if reinforcing it for herself more than for his benefit. "A Purification ordered by the Black Hand in these darkest of times. I had no choice, it wasn't my fault."

Her knees gave out quite suddenly and the only thing that prevented her from crashing to the hard, cold floor was her proximity to the Argonian who she had met completely by accident. He caught her on pure reflex and was not at all surprised to find that she was much lighter than she looked to be. Obviously she was more affected by this than he had imagined she would be.

The chivalrous side of him found itself surfacing after many years of hardship as he deemed it unsuitable to lay the traumatised woman in a room with a dead body, which didn't leave him many options for exactly where to leave her considering the wide path of destruction she'd left in her wake. He carried her semi-conscious form to the entrance hall awkwardly, for while she was lighter than she looked, he was not stronger than he looked in the slightest, and laid her on the tattered red rug next to the table in the corner. Then, for want of anything else to do, he sat himself back in the chair to wait for a proper explanation to all this, and mostly to why it had affected her so profoundly, the merciless assassin who killed simply because she enjoyed it.

A wave of nausea swept over him when the adrenaline rush finally subsided but his newfound and unexplained feeling of loyalty to the woman who had just killed the only family that had ever accepted him in his uselessness prevented him from entirely losing his battle to his mind.

After almost an hour of merely lying on the floor the Dunmer seemed to regain enough energy to sit herself back upright and stare straight through the Argonian at the wall behind him. "I killed a vampire..." she said in a strange, thoughtful tone that was entirely new to the both of them.

"You aren't the first," Turner reassured her. "Many people hate their kind."

"You wouldn't understand!" she replied, her eyes focusing fiercely on his face with an angry flash. "Nobody understands! I hate vampires for what..." She stopped suddenly and decided to change the subject slightly. "But I can't kill them!"

"What did they do?" the Argonian asked, secretly pleased that he had managed to provoke some kind of reaction from her that seemed even vaguely normal and happy in the knowledge that this might not cause her any permanent damage after all.

For a moment she appeared to be considering whether or not to tell him about her past. If she opened up to him it would most likely be for the first time since she'd left Morrowind for Cyrodiil and would probably be the result of a massive amount of shock mingled with an intense guilt that he couldn't even begin to comprehend. In a way he regretted asking her to tell him, but a strange anticipation preventing him from retracting the comment and asking for something simpler.

"In Morrowind," she began, as if she were giving one of the lectures on the lore of Vvardenfell that her father had often forced his unlucky children to attend. "There are a lot of vampire clans, but three main ones: Aundae, Berne and Quarra and each one is as shunned from society as the rest. House Telvanni isn't quite as biased against vampires as the other factions and even allows them to join their ranks and progress as anyone else. There was one vampire in the house while we were growing up, but he vowed only to feed on House Redoran and House Hlaalu, and the residents of Wolverine Hall Mages Guild when all else failed, and my brother Reron and I got curious.

"When we were teenagers we used to go on expeditions to the wilderness to see what we could find out there and we did all sorts of things, battled nix hounds and wrestled kagouti side by side. Reron and I were quite a team really," she added with a sigh, her gaze reverting back to the wall and her voice becoming distant. "But after a while things began to separate us. I joined the Morag Tong after I snuck into their headquarters in Vivec by accident when I was fourteen, and Reron was forced to join the Fighters Guild by Mother so that he would have something to do with himself. Father didn't care, he focused on his pride and joy Sadas as he rose through the ranks of House Telvanni slower than most blind and dumb kwama could even if all their legs had been cut off.

"When I was sixteen Sadas was killed in the Arena. He was a lot older than us and annoyed a Telvanni Master by insulting him... I can't remember which one now, but I think it was Master Baladas. Father decided to turn his attentions on Reron after that, forcing him to leave the Fighters Guild and join House Telvanni against his will, determined that his family would become great within his precious Great House. Reron and I decided to go out on one last jaunt before he lost his freedom forever and set off for the Ashlands and eventually Vivec, which was where we told Mother we were going. One night as we slept we were ambushed by vampires and, while we escaped with our lives, we did not escape unscathed.

"I was stupid and I fumbled with my weapon, making me the ideal target. Of the three vampires that attacked us, one fell to Reron's blade and the other two flocked on me, preparing the remove a few pints of my blood for their own purposes, but Reron stopped them. I wasn't wounded, but one of them had managed to sink its teeth into Reron's arm, infecting him with porphyric haemophilia. We returned home and the wounds were healed, but the disease was not cured. My brother knew that he would have to leave his family for our safety and sought an audience with the vampire living in Sadrith Mora, who directed him to the correct place to go for his bloodline. Apparently he had become a Quarra vampire, but I can't remember where he was sent now. One night Reron just... disappeared, leaving a note to me saying that he would be back once he'd found a cure for vampirism. I waited five years but heard nothing. Father lost his mind and Mother decided that she should marry me off to some high standing Telvanni noble to please Father, so I ran and I ended up here in the middle of a crisis and appearing in some senile old man's dreams. Vampires took my brother and my only friend away from me! I can't kill them, what if they were friends of his? What if..." Then she allowed herself to sob, her intense self control broken.

The Argonian sat speechless for a while while contemplating what to do. Nobody ever trusted the failed Argonian, the sailors on the Serpents Wake had called him a bad luck charm and even his old mentor Quill-Weave had had her doubts about him after he'd almost got his arm taken off by a mountain lion when she had ordered him to leave some meat in Arvena Thelas' basement to tempt out her pet rats.

"Cures for vampirism are rare," he said eventually with a long sigh. "Perhaps your brother had trouble finding one. _You_ could look for one here in Cyrodiil and take it to him in the vampire nest yourself." The look on her face showed that she had never actually considered this possibility before. "The place to look would be the legendary Arcane University in the Imperial City..."

"I love you," she said suddenly, seemingly sincerely.

Her comment caught Turner off guard far more than he allowed himself to show. "No you don't," he told her almost sternly as if he were dealing with a small child rather than a grown assassin who was obviously older than he was. "You're in shock and you're upset, that's all."

"No I'm not!" she insisted, jumping to her feet fluidly. "I love you!"

"No, you really don't." The reply was accompanied by the raising of an eyebrow and the Argonian also rising to his feet in order to deal with whatever she was now planning to throw at him, which in this case was her entire body. He held her back with some difficulty. "Besides, Argonians can't be with Dunmer. It's a biological thing. We're lizards and we lay eggs, you're mer and you have live young. Look, you're emotional, you're in shock and you're probably tired too, you should go to sleep and get some rest."

Idari's shoulders slumped slightly in disappointment and she stepped back out of his grasp. "I can't sleep. I have too much to do. I need to go to Lucien and to Bruma and then the gods only know where in order to appease Martin and appease Lucien and appease Jauffre and whoever else decides to stick their oars into my business. The Thieves Guild was just a whim, a hobby, but this is just my way of life and nothing else is within my control with this stupid Oblivion Crisis. I'll never have time to save Reron now..."

Turner narrowed his eyes in confusion. "The Oblivion Crisis? Can't you just leave that to the Hero of Kvatch?"

The Dunmer blinked in amazement. "Are you that stupid?" she asked. Her affectionate moment had obviously passed and somehow Turner found himself missing it slightly, however at least now she was beginning to sound like her normal self again. "The Hero of Kvatch is a Dunmer woman, right? She was in the dreams of the late Emperor and he told her to 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion'. She found his illegitimate son Martin living as a priest in Kvatch and took him to Cloud Ruler Temple with the Blades Grandmaster Jauffre. The task falls to her to eradicate the Mythic Dawn, the Emperor's assassins. How much more information do I need to spout at you before you get it? _I_ am the Hero of Kvatch, and since nobody's going to be giving you any contracts any time soon I could use a hand."

_Well,_ thought Turner as the metaphorical lightbulb above his head flickered into life, _that certainly explains a lot_. And she was right about those contracts, as the pool of blood beneath the door to the Training Room was still growing and seemed to be perplexing the Dark Guardian, who even dropped a carefully considered step to stare at it in puzzlement.

"You said to Bruma?" he asked slowly, and by the sound of his voice he was obviously weighing up his dwindling number of options "Do you think it's really that clever making me go back there?"

"Well technically _you_ didn't kill him," Idari shrugged less than helpfully. "The Black Horse Courier said that Baenlin died by accident so you should be alright. Not sure what became of your old friend Gromm though," she added with a snigger. "Anyway, I only have to take a trip to one Nord in an inn, a possible unidentified contract target, and then on to Cloud Ruler Temple, which is in the mountains behind Bruma anyway. From there I have no idea where I'm headed, maybe the Imperial City to speak to Christophe, wherever Martin decides to send me this time, most likely that'll be to wherever the Mythic Dawn are based. Can you handle a weapon now?" Turner nodded, suddenly aware of the dagger which was still at his waist that he had completely forgotten about. "Then you can help me clear them out."

"I could... find a cure for you," he suggested slowly, knowledgeable that a comment like that could easily land him in a shallow grave in the state she was in at the moment. "I'm not very good at... fighting, you see. I... Blood gets me... Spilling it and... killing people with weapons. I can... poison them or... I can sneak past people... sort of."

"That's no use!" the Dunmer growled at him. "What's the use in being an assassin if you can't kill people? You could kill the Mythic Dawn with your frost spell, I guess," she added with a grin as though the memory was still causing her vast amounts of amusement. "What about... marksmanship? How good are you with a bow and arrow?"

"Can't say," the Argonian admitted with a shrug, staring at his feet and wishing that she could have just stayed traumatised permanently. She was much more agreeable when she was traumatised. "I've never tried."

"Telaendril had a good quality bow that she won't be using any more, and there are arrows in her chest downstairs. Have a go."

Turner knew better than to argue with her when she was in a bad mood and right now she was about a million times more unstable than usual, but he was highly repulsed at the idea of taking the belongings of someone who had died so recently and someone who had been as good as family to him at that, however much he had disliked her when she'd been alive. He gingerly removed the bow from the Bosmer's corpse, praying to every god that he had ever heard of regardless of whether he believed in them or not that she was not watching him from the Void and planning to come back and haunt him from desecrating her final resting place. Then he turned and pulled one arrow out of the door in order to prevent a trip down to retrieve another one from a room that firstly smelt disgusting as a result of Antoinetta's experiment and secondly contained two dead bodies lolling across the table.

The first shot hit the door and splintered the wood almost all the way through, even Idari had to admit that it was better than she had expected. Next, having retrieved another arrow from the door, he was set the task of hitting something smaller, like the page of a book which she mindlessly ripped to pieces and attached to the splinters of the arrow's predecessor.

Three arrows later and smaller and smaller targets until they reached something an inch square in size Idari decided that she'd finally found a useful talent for the seemingly not so useless assassin.

"Quite a sharpshooter, aren't you?" she found herself asking, sufficiently impressed with his archery skills. "We might make an assassin of you yet."

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_Is anyone besides DeusExfreak alive out there? Reviews are useful, you know. Virtual cookies to whoever reviews, however short. Even if your review says 'This is crap' it'll be appreciated. ~ARTY~_


	11. Applewatch

_Author Note: This chapter is a little weird, I guess. I don't dislike it, but I definitely think the last one was better. I guess I'm better at writing about things that have already happened... Umm, the title is a work in progress, and the only reason I've posted this chapter now (it's scheduled for rewriting eventually, like pretty much the whole story so far) is because I liked the murder scene a lot, it's my best present time murder to date, in my opinion. I put a little snippet in at the start about a character that might well become a proper part of the story, once I can find a reason to put her in, so it isn't just a random ramble on my part. Oh, and the ending is TACKY, I needed a way to end it before it descended into rubbishness. Any hints will be taken into account when I rewrite it, so please feel free to leave a comment, however small._

_Also I've changed the summary since last time. Better? Worse? The character limit is frustrating to work with, so it's bad, I admit. Please note that I changed Shadowmere's gender to male a couple of chapters back because I thought that it better suited the horse. For continuity I'll look back and change the rest, though I think I've only mentioned it once before. If this makes someone hate me, let me know and I'll change it back._

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Chapter 11

The Argonian was a curious one for sure. Wearing black leather armour that covered his whole body and a black hood that shrouded his face in shadows, a bow slung over his right shoulder and a quiver of arrows on his left with a small iron dagger at his left hip.

His companion was wearing a similar outfit and of unknown race but obviously female and obviously mer. She had a silver shortsword at her hip and an Akaviri katana strung at her back and, despite her smaller size, she was far more menacing and held much more authority than the other.

The young thief watched them pass as she made her rounds of Cheydinhal in the early hours of the morning when the Sun had not yet risen and Masser and Secunda still graced the dark sky majestically. The abandoned house in Cheydinhal had always posed her some confusion but even more so now that the well cover had mysteriously been demolished and the two mysterious figures were seen leaving at this hour. They would return, she knew, so she decided that persuing her own curiosity would have to wait for a more suitable hour and skulked back to her hideout triumphantly with her days takings.

Idari Mortha was not as unobservant as the thief had assumed her to be however, and were she not so busy then she would have afforded the young Khajiit the full attention of her blades and a painstakingly slow and agonising death. Though as she was now a member of the Thieves Guild herself she assumed that she should probably not keep slicing people to pieces for looking at her the wrong way and use slightly less bloody methods for getting her revenge, like perhaps stripping their homes of every single possession.

Turner was slightly worried about their trip to visit Speaker Lucien Lachance and was actively fighting against the lump forming in his throat so much that he was near oblivious to the world as they walked through the city and up the road towards Fort Farragut. His fear was not unsanctioned, last time he had met the Speaker he had barely escaped with his life and now that he was one of the lowest ranked members of the Brotherhood still breathing he was pretty sure that Lucien would consider him entirely expendable. Fortunately Idari didn't seem to think him expendable at the moment, but he knew how easily her mood could swing and land him in a shallow unmarked grave somewhere remote enough for it to never be found.

They arrived at the fort only a few moments after leaving Cheydinhal and the Argonian was near awestruck that it looked about at regular as any other fort from the outside.

"Since the Dark Brotherhood is _illegal_, it wouldn't be a great idea to advertise, would it?" Idari pointed out, and Turner could only admit that she was right. This also explained why they only came to murderers in their sleep rather than actively recruiting them in the streets like other guilds.

The Dunmer led him to an exceptionally large tree and Turner was hardly surprised to find that it was completely hollow and contained a round metal trapdoor. She pulled it open and descended the rope ladder skillfully, then beckoned for the Argonian to follow her and one way or another he managed to reach the floor in one piece though both the skill and the grace were absent from his attempts.

Lucien Lachance was seated at his desk as he had been the previous day, writing some kind of letter to an unknown recipent in a fluid and legible script seen often from the hands of Imperials but rarely from other races.

"Quite the pair, aren't you?" Lachance smirked, his hand flowing across the paper languidly as he spoke. "You chose to spare him?" he asked to Idari.

The Dunmer folded her arms angrily. "No, I killed him and reanimated his corpse for no apparent reason to be just as clumsy as it was when he was alive. Please don't state the obvious Lucien."

The Imperial finished the letter with an elaborate signature and a flourish of the quill before turning to face the two assassins in his company. "The Purification went well?" he asked in anticipation. His tone was not entirely devoid of all concern, but the well versed layers of sarcasm made it almost indistinguishable.

"As well as killing one's Brothers and Sisters could go," Idari admitted. Turner also noted that she was avoiding the subject of her slight breakdown afterwards and decided that he shouldn't speak unless spoken to.

Lucien smiled slightly. "That is an achievement. I have known members that would rather face the Wrath of Sithis and eternal damnation than go through with a Purification. There hasn't been a Purification for many years, but now that the traitor has been flushed out we can all rest easy."

"Don't jump to conclusions," his Silencer muttered under her breath. "Perhaps the traitor is simply cleverer than the Black Hand and _wanted_ you to assume that you had killed him. Maybe he moves from sanctuary to sanctuary and just framed someone in Cheydinhal to throw the Black Hand off his scent."

The Speaker smirked at her ignorance. "_Nobody_ is smarter than the entire Black Hand," he replied in an altogether overconfident tone that always seemed to spell disaster for whoever used it. "We are the five most influential assassins in Cyrodiil and we have informants that give us up to the minute information about every single person here. Nobody would outsmart the five of us."

He received only a terse reply: "Whatever floats your boat, Lucien."

Lucien raised an eyebrow. "I'll forgive your insolence for now. Your uses outway your tongue at the moment," he admitted. Then he added with a sinister grin: "Perhaps disposing of your useless friend would keep you in check?"

Turner's eyes widened slightly but for some reason the Dunmer took the threat completely in her stride and placed her hands complacently on her hips. "He's not all that useless, Speaker Lachance," Idari stated with a mock air of respect. "Besides, there must not be many people left in the Brotherhood, so killing the people that you know _aren't_ the traitor seems pretty... self-damning. I'm surprised your informants haven't told you who the traitor is yet if nobody can outsmart you. I heard your old Speaker was murdered, and your Silencer was recently 'killed on a contract'. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that somebody had it in for _you_ personally." There was an awkward pause as nobody dared speak. "So, you said you had a contract for me?"

The Imperial smirked again, brushing aside her comments as pure imagination. "Of course I have a contract for you. The people of Cyrodiil will never cease taking drastic action in their petty feuds, and Sithis will never cease to demand their souls for his own divine purposes. From now on you'll receive your contracts and rewards at dead drop locations across the province. Each dead drop will be pointed to in the instructions of the one before, but since you're 'oh so busy' I can give you the first one here." He gestured lazily towards a piece of paper amid the sheets on his desk. "There was a contract to prevent a wizard turning himself into a lich but I decided I'd take care of that one personally, so you've got a contract to eliminate not one target, but five..."

"Five?" the Dunmer asked in annoyance, folding her arms again. "Turner, grab the contract for me." The Argonian did as he was told and gingerly lifted the sheet of paper from the pile, keeping his eyes fixed on the noticeably sharpened dagger beside the Speaker's hand. "Where does it say the first target is?"

In the darkness it was difficult for Turner to make out the lettering, but eventually he found the piece of information he needed. "It says that they only know the location of one of the targets: the matron of the family, Perennia Draconis. She lives in a farm called Applewatch in the Jerall Mountains and should have the locations of... her children," he enunciated slowly so that he would not have to repeat himself. His voice quivered noticeably when he mentioned the children.

"A family?" Idari asked flatly. "I've always wondered why people ask the Night Mother to silence a whole family. Surely their feud can't be with every member... Right then, we shan't be seeing you for a while now, Lucien. Turner, go and fetch your horse and meet me at the base of this hill."

Both Speaker and Silencer watched with almost matching smirks as the Argonian climbed up the ladder and out through the trapdoor in a series of jerked movements that nearly sent him crashing to the floor twice during the short distance.

"What do you see in him?" Lucien asked as soon as he was firmly out of earshot.

"A fair observation," his Silencer admitted. "Unfortunately I don't know the answer right now since I'm far too busy to be worrying about exactly why I let him follow me about. He's the worst assassin I've ever met, but his heart's in the right place and I have a strange feeling that it's not just fear anymore. Right, I'm too busy to be questioning my own motives, so farewell Lucien, for the last time in a long while."

The Imperial wasn't given a chance to reply as Idari scaled the ladder in seconds, leaving him to simply turn back to his paperwork with a shrug and a sigh before preparing to leave on his own contract.

Turner's weary paint horse buckled under the strain of trying to keep up with Shadowmere and the Argonian made a mental note to buy a new horse at the next stables they reached, as long as it wasn't the one in Bruma which was probably looking for a replacement ostler right now and licking their wounds from the last visit they'd received from the skilled assassin and her decidedly less skilled companion. It was obvious to Turner that he'd only ever be her companion for the time being, and strangely he wasn't bothered with any of the connotations of assuming that title.

Applewatch was a small farmhouse high in the freezing Jerall Mountains with a small garden surrounded by a quaint wooden fence. Idari ordered the Argonian to look inside for any sign of the inhabitant and he was immediately faced by an old Imperial woman with a motherly look about her and a loyal dog curled at her feet. Strangely when she saw the hooded figure she just smiled and dove a hand into the pocket of her skirt to pull out a small bag of coins and a piece of paper.

"You must be from the courier service," she said warmly.

"Perennia Draconis?" Turner asked, his voice wavering as his mind raced to find a reason why this loving old woman deserved to die.

"Are you cold, dear?" she asked him after a small nod, mistaking the regret in his voice for being as a result of the weather. "I'm too old to go across Cyrodiil to deliver gifts to all of my children now that they've grown up and left home, so your service is a lifesaver." Turner flinched as she used the word 'lifesaver' but he found some slight comfort in the fact that her children had all grown up and left home. "Sit by the fire, dear," she told him, gesturing to the blaze crackling in the grate.

"No, I... I must be going," he stuttered in reply, though the fire looked welcoming beyond comparison as he watched the flames dance to an unknown tune.

"Very well," the old woman said, rising from her chair to hand him the bag and note. "Half the money now and the rest once the presents have been delivered, as we agreed."

The Argonian simply nodded, a lump rising in his throat as he watched her return to her chair for the last time. Faced with the choice of killing her himself and allowing Idari to butcher her he knew he prefered the former but found himself unable to raise his dagger to strike her down. She looked so blameless and reminded him sourly of the loving mother he had never got the chance know due to cruel fate.

"Are you alright?" He was only partially aware of Perenna Draconis' words among his deliberations and made no reply for quite some time.

"Sithis," the assassin told her, choosing his words more carefully than usual. "Demands blood. I am bound to Sithis. I don't... think you deserve to die, but somebody does, and now our Dread Father requests you meet with him in the Void..."

The woman's eyes grew in shock. "An assassin sent for me? I should have known this would happen after my husband died. I'm only an old woman!"

Turner shook his head sadly. "Sithis doesn't know mercy," he stated in a low voice, drawing his dagger awkwardly. "I have no choice. I'm sorry."

As he raised his blade to strike the old woman she lifted a single arm defensively, and with tears streaming down her pale cheeks she only uttered two words: "My children," in a single act that rocked the assassin deeply as he fought against his merciful side. He knew in his heart that sparing her now would lead her to a worse fate at Idari's hands, but the thoughts could not hold the regrets at bay.

His dagger plunged fully into her chest and the Imperial's warm blood flowed out over the assassin's fingers. He withdrew his hand from the hilt of the blade as if he had been bitten by a poisonous snake and stared at the blood in shock as the last of the life flooded from the old woman until her muscles went limp and her eyes turned skywards, slumping in her favourite chair as her red blood flowed over her brown clothes and dripped slowly to the floor. The dog at her feet uncurled itself and stared at his dead master longingly until he began to howl with loss and sorrow.

"I'm sorry," Turner repeated in a bare whisper as he tore his eyes from his blood soaked glove to look at her terrified face and the greef-ridden animal at her feet.

The others he'd killed had seemed to deserve their end. Dreth was in prison for a lifetime for some unknown crime and Roderick was a mercenary warlord with trained killers at his beck and call, but somehow this death felt different and unprovoked. Perennia Draconis was just an old woman living alone after her children had grown up and her husband had died. Her death didn't feel... just or fair like the others had done. Turner failed to find the words to describe it.

Removing his dagger with his bloodied hand, he held it at arms length as he left Applewatch to return to Idari. She seemed to have grown impatient with waiting and was casting fireballs as various plants in the little garden with an accuracy that made the Argonian shudder.

"You've killed her then?" the Dunmer asked in a matter-of-fact way that could only have come from the years of killing she had experienced. Turner nodded sourly and Idari's expression softened slightly as if she were reading his mind. "Not every mark we get seems to deserve to die. It's not our job to question their motives or the motives of the people who ordered the contract, we just go and kill as we are instructed. How are you feeling? Nauseous?"

The Argonian glared at her. "Why do you care? You've been doing this for so long that you could probably slaughter a toddler and not feel a thing!"

"I'll take that as a no then," Idari sighed heavily. "I was as bad as you when I first started. I still don't embrace the spilling of blood like some assassins do. Killing is just a way of life. Did you find out where her children were?" Turner thrust the piece of paper into her hands angrily and began to clean his knife in the snow. "This is a shopping list!" Idari exclaimed in shock upon reading it. "Presents for them? Well, that's ironic." When she received no acknowledgement from her companion she continued to read. "Andreas Draconis in the Drunken Dragon Inn, Caelia Draconis in Leyawiin, Matthias Draconis in the Imperial City - that's convenient - and Sibylla Draconis in Muck Valley Cavern. I have no idea where the inn and the cave are so we'll have to ask around..." She cast a fleeting glance at the Argonian who seemed to be actively ignoring her. "How about we do something else for a while? Hunt the Mythic Dawn? I'll introduce you to the Emperor's son if you'd like."

Turner stopped what he was doing and stared hard at her as if searching for some kind of hidden motive in her actions. "Why are you being nice to me?" he demanded. "I'm useless, remember?"

"I'm being nice to you because I know what you're going through," she replied softly. "I just killed seven of the closest people I had to family in this province, remember? You're not useless, not completely. Admittably you may be awful at sneaking, clumsier than most and among the worst users of Destruction magic I've ever met, but you're a bloody good shot with a bow and arrow, you can do a half decent invisibility spell and you get your priorities in the right order unlike somebody else I know, so what've you got to worry about? We aren't all born with a dagger in our hands and we can't all kill without feeling a thing, so stop thinking you're the only one, OK?"

"You've changed your tune. 'Your kind are only good as slaves'," he mocked her, imitating her voice badly.

"Maybe they are," she whispered with a slight smirk, realising the obvious role-reversal that had occured. "Maybe I should wait to be proven wrong." She left it at that and jumped up onto Shadowmere's back with ease.

Turner sighed and sheathed his now clean dagger before scrambling onto the back of the paint horse reluctantly with a last glance back at the door of Applewatch and a memory of what he knew was inside. The quieted sounds of the dog's howls made him wish that he had put the animal out of it's misery as well but he knew well that he could never have dealt with the excess bloodshed.

Neither spoke as they rode up to and skirted around the walls of Bruma, the white snow falling thickly on their black armour and coating the ground in a white blanket. They ascended a hill to the north of Bruma carefully in the snow and soon the great fortress of Cloud Ruler Temple began to stretch above them. When they reached the closed gate Idari swung herself from the horse's back and knocked on one powerfully until a single Imperial guard opened it and immediately admitted her, eyeing her companion strangely until she put his mind at rest by assuring him that the Argonian was working with her.

At first glance Turner decided that Cloud Ruler Temple was hardly the place for the Emperor to be hiding at a time like this. It was so far from the royal seat of the Imperial City and took the form of a large wooden house, or so it seemed. Looking around further, however, Turner noticed the numerous Blades on sentry duty and training in the courtyard, readying themselves to fight to the death for their leader and to jump into battle in a second.

Upon entering the main hall Idari crossed confidently to an elderly looking Breton in polished golden armour who had a deadly-looking Akaviri Dai-katana hanging from his back.

"You brought a friend this time?" the Breton asked after noticing Turner in the background.

Idari smiled slightly. "I brought someone we might be able to find a use for. This is Turner and he... works with me."

The look of recognition dawned upon the old man's face, followed by a small frown. "I told you to keep your 'family' away from here," he said with a slight hint of annoyance.

The Dunmer's smile widened. "This guy doesn't have the cunning to pose you any threat. Besides, you send him away and you lose your Hero. He's the only 'family' I have left now. Is Baurus back yet?"

"He's with Martin," the Blade admitted. "He hasn't left his side since he returned... He really does take the Emperor's death personally. I hear you left him in the Imperial City; does your loyalty to Tamriel come second to your loyalty to your Unholy Matron?" he asked in a hushed voice that Turner could barely make out.

"Of course not. I just get the feeling that this story isn't going to end happily and I don't want it to happen any faster than it ought to. Where's Martin?"

"In his room, trying to make sense of it all. It was a big shock for him to find out that he was the royal heir and ever since he's known the identities of his father's killers he's been more... withdrawn. Maybe you could bring him some good news and destroy the Mythic Dawn?" the Breton asked hopefully. "I believe Baurus made a map for you. Go through that door and up the stairs to find him."

Idari nodded and took off towards the door that the old man had pointed out, not bothering to go around the tables and instead leaping over them easily. The Breton watched her go and then rounded to the Argonian. "Turner?" he asked as if reminding himself of the name. When he received a nod he spoke again. "My name is Jauffre and I am the Grandmaster of the Blades. Try anything funny here and I have full authority to have you put to death, do you understand?"

"With all due respect," Turner replied, though respect was very obviously absent from his tone. "I'm probably the worst assassin you're ever going to meet, and if I did kill someone I would probably faint at the blood or freeze in shock. Cyrodiil's my home too; I'm not prepared to bargain with it's future just to get my kicks by trying to kill the Emperor, and Idari? She'll come round eventually. Cyrodiil will never be her home, but I think it's growing on her."

A small smile graced the Breton's lips. "Then you're just the kind of person we need to be on our side," he said triumphantly. "The type with nothing to lose, nowhere else to go, enough patriotism to see you through and the ability to keep our Dunmeri friend in check if needs be." For a moment Jauffre smiled slightly further as if laughing at his own private joke. "Besides," he added colloquially. "The worst assassin I've ever met died a long time ago. He cut his finger on his own poisoned blade as he was drawing it and fell down dead near instantly. One of the first assassins I ever encountered in this job..."

Idari came bursting back through the far door excitedly and was closely followed by a Redguard and an Imperial. The Redguard was wearing fairly standard Blades armour while the Imperial was dressed in a plain blue robe that trailed along the floor as he walked.

"Turner," Idari declared. "This is Martin, he wanted to meet you."

Martin gazed intently at the Argonian from behind vivid blue eyes and Turner almost found himself blushing at all the attention. He didn't look much like an heir to any throne, let alone the heir to the throne of Tamriel; his brown hair flopped across his face in an unregal fashion and his expression was unusually soft for an Imperial of such high status.

"Pleased to meet you, sire," Turner said uncomfortably. He had no idea how he was supposed to address a member of royalty, and that was the best he could come up with to put an end to the eerie silence that had filled the room.

"Just Martin if you please," the Imperial replied slowly. Turner could have sworn he'd noticed the Emperor's heir wince ever so slightly at being called 'sire'. The Argonian nodded loyally. "Idari tells me of her plan to attack Lake Arrius Caverns with you. I can only wish you the best of luck in your battles. Will you be leaving immediately?"

"Yes," Idari stated with almost unnatural enthusiasm. "Let's get going now and we'll be back once we've gotten rid of all those Mythic Dawn!"

Turner sighed deeply, but couldn't help but be amused by the slightly shocked expressions on the faces of Jauffre and Martin at the Dunmer's sudden outburst. The Redguard who had entered with Martin raised an eyebrow and folded his arms in disbelief. "The Mythic Dawn agents are not very well trained," he said carefully. His accent showed that he had never been to Hammerfell, but his bloodline was obviously very pure Redguard. "They all have bound armour and weapons, however, so you'll need to watch out. Other than that taking them down will be childs play. Get in using their password 'Greet the new day' and try to capture their leader Mankar Camoran if you can. He's the author of those Commentaries and is one of the few permitted to read the Mysterium Xarxes, some kind of book sent to Nirn by Mehrunes Dagon himself. Good luck too, the place will likely be crawling with agents."

The last comment did nothing to calm the Argonian's frayed nerves and once more he felt the familiar lump lodging itself in his throat. Idari swelled with excitement and jumped headlong over the tables to land beside Turner, take ahold of his arm roughly and drag him after her back to the stables and their supposed destiny.

Jauffre and Martin followed them out into the courtyard curiously with Baurus never more than two steps behind. Both noticed the look of apprehension plastered across the face of their Hero's companion but also noted that he followed her loyally regardless of whatever fear he might hold for his own safety.

"What was the Emperor thinking entrusting the future of our world to an assassin and her friend?" Jauffre muttered to himself under his breath as he strode into the East Wing of Cloud Ruler Temple once they'd left his field of vision.

It was a question that was destined not be answered for a very, very long time.


	12. Dagon Shrine

_Author Note: I'm reluctant to post this just yet since my two most reliable reviewers haven't reviewed yet, but then again the last chapter was a bit... Yeah, apologies for that, it'll be re-done, but at the moment I'm waiting for my GCSE results in a couple of weeks, my nerves are frayed and my writing's taking a hit because of it. The start of this chapter I had no idea what to write and the end is me going off on a tangent but getting things done. Idari may be busy, but I've found ways to fit a lot of the quests for various guilds together (you might have noticed this) so I can keep up three quest lines at once with very little deviation... Plus I've skipped a lot of quests, including my favourite one, to make things work and to fit with the rough timeline I have in my mind. However this is my first real battle scene and, while not as good as some others I've read, I like it. This is why I could never have Idari enter the Arena, I'd be put to shame! Anyway, my ideas for the next chapter are coming slowly so I might not update for a while - Permanent Retirement, whatever chapter that is, shows how bad my writing can get without an idea. As always review and let me know what you think, how to improve, writing tips would be useful too(!), and don't let lethargy get you down! XD_

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Chapter 12

According to the map Lake Arrius Caverns were located in the vast open space between Cheydinhal and Bruma at the base of the Valus and Jerall Mountains near the shores of Lake Arrius. The map was a basic line drawing of the entirety of Cyrodiil with only a small cross denoting the location of the caverns and nothing else to use as a reference to anything. It took Idari and Turner almost two days to find them amid the neverending expanse of caves, ruins and forts dotted across the countryside.

"I'll make it up to you for Perennia Draconis and go in first," Idari whispered to her companion as they stood conspiring outside the cavern door. "Stay close and stay invisible. Don't do anything until I give you the signal, understood?"

The Argonian nodded, did exactly as he was told and vanished before her eyes, then the Dunmer stepped through the cavern door and made her way through cautiously. It was just a large cave at first glance, but slightly further inside she could make out a door guarded by an Imperial man in a familiar red robe, surrounded by banners depicting the rising sun against a red background and flaming torches casting a light around the empty space.

When the Imperial said "Dawn is breaking," eerily through the shadows, Idari replied with the password that Baurus had given her in Cloud Ruler Temple and she was admitted through the door with ease. Turner was not stealthy in following her but for some reason the doorkeeper didn't seem to notice him as he blundered his way after the Dunmeri woman in sinister looking armour.

"Well done for following the Path of Dawn," a voice applauded Idari from the shadows. She had to fight against every instinct she had not to attack the owner of the spooky voice straight away. "By the simple fact that you have made it this far I can assume that you wish to join our order?"

"Yes," Idari replied quickly. Now she and Turner had a reason to get into the cavern proper and hopefully destroy this 'Manker Camoran' before he got to Martin. "I have come to serve Lord Dagon."

The figure in the shadows chuckled slightly and stepped into the light. It was a middle-aged Dunmer dressed in a long red robe that tied at the waist with a brown belt. "My name is Harrow, warden of this shrine," he told her as if he had repeated this same declaration several times a day for many years. "To protect our shrine we ask you to leave all of your possessions with me and wear our sacred robe or we simply cannot admit you. Everything you need will be provided for you inside."

"Why?" Idari demanded. "No, that's a stupid request!"

Harrow's face contorted into a slight scowl. "What?" he replied angrily. "I must warn you that nobody leaves here that does not bind themselves completely to Lord Dagon. You have proven yourself dedicated by making it this far. Now I ask you one last time to give me your possessions. The Master demands it of all new initiates."

Idari hesitated, but then nodded respectfully and changed into the robe distrustfully, leaving her companion more than a little surprised that she hadn't just killed the man and been done with it. This led Turner to the assumption that she had thought of a plan which she had no intention of telling him about. Typical.

The Dunmer assassin felt strangely exposed wearing only the red robe and without any form of weaponry on her person, it was perhaps the first time since she'd joined the Morag Tong all those years ago, and she suddenly felt all the more glad that she had brought Turner with her after all. Then again, she didn't expect him to be very good in the battle when things got bloody and was pleased that Harrow had not found a way of silencing her just yet.

Harrow led her through a further door and into a large room containing an altar. On the altar stood an Altmer in a blue robe with a staff across his back and the Amulet of Kings hanging around his neck. The Altmer spoke of the Mythic Dawn's successes in retrieving the Amulet and claimed that he would soon be returning the Paradise. Idari was not listening to the words he said and shifted uncomfortably at the base of the altar, trying to formulate a plan to take down the Altmer without drawing undue attention to herself.

Turner had remained at the top of the steps and snuck about until he'd found an ideal vantage point from which to loose arrows at the numerous targets beneath. His primary concern was Idari's safety, but from his position he could make out an Argonian tied beneath a statue of Mehrunes Dagon and instantly felt a burning desire to protect the Argonian from the fate which he had been brought to this evil place to endure.

Both assassins were considering their own seperate plans when a portal opened atop the altar just behind the Altmer who they'd both assumed to be Mankar Camoran. Idari instinctively moved a hand to the weapon that was not there and tried to reach the front of the crowd before Camoran disappeared, however she was too slow and the Altmer walked through the portal unhindered to his supposed 'Paradise', taking with him the Amulet of Kings and many of the hopes for Tamriel's uncertain future.

Idari cursed silently, fuming at her own failure and barely noticed when Harrow told her to speak with another Altmer who she had not yet seen on the altar. Turner straightened up slightly, giving his aching legs a well earned break and leaning forwards in order to hear the words being spoken by the people beneath.

Idari followed Harrow up the altar steps and was faced by a female Altmer in a red robe and a red hood identical to most of the cultists in the cavern who had a staff across her back and a rare-looking ring on a finger of her left hand.

"My name is Ruma Camoran," the Altmer introduced herself, the shadows cast on her face by her hood and the burning torches making her look more sinister than she was. Idari's fingers tightened around a non-existant sword as she wished she had something sharp to plunge into the neck of the Altmer who was obviously Mankar Camoran's daughter. That would send him the right message alright. "Before we fully initiate you into our order you must prove your loyalty to our Lord Dagon. Take the dagger from the altar and offer this Argonian's blood as a sacrifice to our lord," she demanded in a honeyed voice that could have charmed a charging Daedroth into attending a tea party.

Idari chuckled inwardly. The fools were giving her a weapon.

She quickly weighed up her remaining options and decided quickly that killing the Argonian would gain their trust in order for a surprise attack once some of the cultists had left. Crossing to the altar she picked up the silver dagger and realised with joy that Mankar Camoran had left behind a book that could only have been the Mysterium Xarxes. Now, at least, she could return to Jauffre without being entirely empty-handed.

The weight of the dagger was a comforting feeling to her otherwise unarmed body and she paused a moment to savour it.

Meanwhile her companion's eyes were darting about in terror, his feeling of allegiance to the sacrifice far stronger than he had anticipated them to be. He drew his bow and knocked an arrow almost instinctively, allowing his eyes to roam about for a target. He had seen the Xarxes long before Idari had but had not yet thought of a plan to retrieve it that didn't involve forcing the Dunmer to blow her cover and be attacked by innumerable armed cultists with no armour to her name and a small silver dagger as her only weapon. In an instant Turner had selected his target.

The Dunmer Harrow had moved to one side of the altar and now stood unmoving with a smirk on his face as he carried all of Idari's things in a flimsy sack over his shoulder. The invisible Argonian took deliberate aim on Harrow's face and breathed slowly, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. As soon as he let go of the string his cover would be blown and his invisibility spell would dissolve, leaving him to fire arrows until the cultists caught up to him and run like a madman after they had, since he didn't trust his skills with a blade enough to test them in battle and his destruction skills would likely kill him or Idari or that Argonian rather than injure their targets.

Idari approached the sacrificial altar slowly, dagger in hand, and ignored the Altmer as she spoke insistantly about rising into the glory of Lord Dagon and other such drivel. As she began raising the dagger to strike the Argonian she heard a whistling sound followed by the sound of an arrow inbedding into flesh. A quick glance to her right confirmed her fears as the Dunmer Harrow crumpled to the floor with an arrow through his forehead and blood dripping from his eye sockets like red tears. The only sound was his body and Idari's things hitting the altar, his red eyes glazed over in shock and his life over before he could even utter a word in his own defence.

Ruma Camoran was the first to act, drawing her staff instantly and beginning to mutter an incantation before an arrow appeared in the centre of her chest and fresh blood bloomed over her red robe. She choked in pain, eyes widened with shock and blood appearing at the corners of her mouth. Dropping her staff she fell to the ground while her body contorted involuntarily and she succumbed to a slow, painful death.

The other cultists summoned their bound armour and maces in an instant and Idari watched them scramble for a view of their attacker with a feeling of deja vu as she recalled the events surrounding the Emperor's death. She rummaged through Harrow's sack until she found her katana and, seeing no reason to complete the sacrifice anymore, severed the bonds of the Argonian with a slash of the silver dagger.

Several of the cultists had fallen to well placed arrows that had found the minute gaps in their armour but the others had seemingly located Turner and ran after him. Idari was partly aware of a figure running through the darkness of the highest level of the cave and began to wonder whether he had actually thought this plan through before executing it. Noticing that the sacrifice had been freed however, several of the cultists ran back towards the altar to assault the other major threat to their Lord's shrine and, for many of them, they ran to an early grave.

Idari tossed her shortsword to the sacrifice as he looked about in terror, clothed only in a loincloth and very aware that the sadistic Mythic Dawn agents were making their way towards him. The Dunmer in the red robe had been about to kill him and understandably he was wary of her, however he decided that she was at least offering him a slight chance of survival and began to run as she took out two cultists in his way with a fireball.

Dashing forwards she grabbed the Mysterium Xarxes and tucked it into the sack of her equipment, hearing the shouts of the cultists as they called for reinforcements and the war cries as they ran into battle. Many of the cultists who had been chasing Turner were dead by now, struck down with arrows, but a few still persisted and were close to catching up to him.

He took a deep breath and leapt from the ledge as the statue of Mehrunes Dagon collapsed onto the sacrificial altar where the Argonian had been lying only a few minutes earlier. Turner braced himself for a painful impact with the stone floor beneath but Idari, noticing him jumping, hit him with a convalescence spell before he impacted the ground leaving him completely unscathed. A few seconds later he was at the altar with her, ending the lives of three more cultists as he made his way there.

The ones who had been following him decided to try their luck jumping too, only to lie mangled at the base of the ledge as their legs snapped and buckled beneath them. Idari put them out of their misery with a wide area drain health spell.

Turner, knowing the bow would be of little use now that the cultists were closing in, slung the bow over his shoulder and picked up the sack, leaving the Dunmer with two hands free for her blade and her magic. Idari led the way as they ran from the altar and up the stairs towards another passageway, the Argonian sacrifice emerging from his hiding place as they reached the door and following in a desperate attempt to stay alive.

Many of the remaining cultists fell to destruction spells and those that didn't lay bleeding from the impact of a sharp blade at the hands of an initiate of their own order wearing their sacred robe. The sacrifice took care of the doorkeeper with a summoned dremora that took both assassins a little aback, wondering why he hadn't unleashed this spell earlier in their flight, but not stopping until they tasted the cool fresh air of the outside.

"That was ridiculous!" Idari exclaimed loudly as soon as they were outside, casting a healing spell over each of them and recovering instantly from the breathlessness that was plaguing both Argonians. "What in Oblivion were you thinking?"

Turner just shrugged and handed her the sack of her possessions that Harrow had dropped. "We got out of there, didn't we?" he pointed out rhetorically as his breathing returned to normal.

"That's not the point!" she replied, snatching the bag from him. He was surprised that she didn't sound particularly angry with him yet, but he wasn't going to hold his breath about that detail.

"You saved me," the sacrifice said breathlessly, dropping Idari's weapon and placing his hands on his knees in order to catch his breath.

"Yeah, and it almost cost us our lives too," Idari snapped at him, rummaging through her bag to find her armour. "I had a plan back there and you blew our cover!"

"You were going to sacrifice him! That isn't a great plan, you know!" Turner retorted, realising amusingly that they were beginning to sound like an old married couple as they argued. "Besides, I had a plan too and I could see a lot more from where I was. You've got to admit that my plan worked."

Idari stared daggers at him as she changed into her shrouded armour and put on her hood again. She thrust the tattered robe towards the sacrifice. "Put this on," she ordered him. "Who are you anyway?"

The Argonian accepted the robe gratefully and slipped it over his head before speaking. "My name is Jeelius," he said eventually. "I'm a priest of the Temple of the One in the Imperial City. I was attacked two days ago as I travelled home and awoke here today. I can't thank you enough for saving my life."

Idari opened her mouth as if to speak but Turner cut across her. "It was no trouble," he replied. "We would have had to kill them all anyway." He flinched slightly as he said the word 'kill', but his guilty conscience was greatly outweighed by his sense of pride for having done the right thing and contributing towards the salvation of Cyrodiil. "Where are you headed, Jeelius? I'll take you back to the Temple if you'd like."

Jeelius shook his head with a slight smile. "No problem, friend. Talos will guide me back to my temple. If either of you are ever in the area feel free to visit; I will repay this great favour you have done me by teaching you a thing or two about magic. Thank you so much for the deed that you have done. I bid that the Nine be with you in your travels and keep you safe from harm."

Turner watched as the priest strode defiantly southwards towards Cheydinhal and did not notice as Idari rounded on him in annoyance. "I told you to wait for the signal!" she said loudly.

The Argonian shrugged it off again, annoying her further. "You didn't tell me what the signal was, did you?"

"But we lost the element of surprise!" she protested, gripping at shorter and shorter straws in order to make her point.

"Harrow and that Camoran girl seemed pretty surprised to me," Turner pointed out with a grin. Idari hurled a fireball at the nearest tree in anger and folded her arms sulkily. "I'm sorry I didn't wait for the signal," he sighed, wary of her temper flaring in his direction. "We probably should have made a better plan before we went in there... Then again, death count aside, we got the book so we did well. The book will lead us to Camoran for sure, and this time we won't just be taking out his daughter. Where are we going next? Cloud Ruler Temple?"

The Dunmer said nothing in reply and continued to rummage through the sack in order to return her possessions to their correct places. The last thing to be left was the Mysterium Xarxes which she wrapped tightly in the sacking and tucked away in a side pocket of her armour. When she looked up again Turner had mounted his paint horse and was tapping his fingers on his leg impatiently as he waited.

Eventually he sighed heavily. "I didn't want you to kill him because he was an Argonian like me," he told her after a little hesitation. "I never knew my parents. I don't even know their names. I don't know who I might be related to. That's why I didn't wait and I'm sorry."

Idari considered this briefly before vaulting onto Shadowmere's back. "You'll never know anything about them," she said. "They as good as didn't exist, they were slaves. How they got you out I'll never know. I imagine they got you to the Argonian Mission in Ebonheart, but they usually send escaped slaves back to Black Marsh, not to Cyrodiil so I hear. We Dunmer have always had slaves and slaves have always been escaping. It doesn't take a genius to work out that the Argonian Mission was something to do with it. Slavery's been made illegal now but people still keep slaves because the majority of Vvardenfell is under the jurisdiction of the Great Houses instead of the Imperial Legion. House Telvanni will never change their ways; outsiders aren't even allowed into Sadrith Mora without hospitality papers unless they stick inside Wolverine Hall where the Legion can protect them. Well Ebonheart's a port, so did you ever spend time aboard ship?"

Turner nodded slowly. "For a little while I was. The crew thought I was bad luck and threw me out at Anvil. I don't think the ship ever left the harbour afterwards though, so I don't know what happened to them after that. I really don't want to recount my life though, so can we please just get going?" He didn't give her a chance to answer however, and simply spurred his pathetic little horse to move. Unsurprisingly she caught up to him quickly.

"I told you about my past!" Idari complained bitterly.

"At least you actually know what happened in your past," she received as a bitter reply.

The Dunmer was slightly taken aback by his words and considered them silently for quite some time. The next time she spoke was when the wind was howling loudly through the forests as if it were trying to ward off travellers and the air seemed to have frozen around them. The walls of Bruma were just beginning to become visible between the trees and the mountains and their destination grew close. "Of course you know what happened in your past," she mumbled just loud enough for him to hear. "You don't _want_ to know what happened in your past. No matter then, I'll find out for myself. Where do you want to go next? Which Draconis?"

Turner stiffened slightly at the mention of the Draconis family but kept up the pace of his horse. "I don't see why they deserve to die," he growled in a low voice that could barely be picked out above the wind.

"One of them obviously did," Idari replied solemnly. "If we go to the Imperial City last it'll be easier to do the other things we need to do there, so we can go to one of the others first. Leyawiin's furthest away, so perhaps we can take out the guard captain first?"

The Argonian shrugged and pulled his hood down further over his face as the wind whistled past angrily. "It's your contract," he pointed out once the wind had died down a little.

"Caelia Draconis it is then," she said definitively. "If they had silt striders in Cyrodiil things would be done a lot quicker around here," she commented as the wind lashed painfully across her face. She had cast a temporary frost resist spell to keep from turning into a lump of ice but it wasn't much use against the howling gale and snow that blew into her face and obscured her vision.

Shadowmere was entirely unaffected by the wind and snow and plowed on as if nothing was wrong, however the old paint horse had definitely seen better days and was beginning to slow under the strain, causing it to nearly be blown off it's feet with each step it took.

At the gates of Bruma they dismounted their horses and tied them to the fence around the stables, not daring to enter it in case they were recognised, and walked into the city. The streets were abandoned except for a few guards who were sheltered from the brunt of the wind by huddling behind the walls, and the others who were so blinded by the snow that they couldn't have seen a thief two feet in front of them without some serious recovery time in front of a blazing fire.

Olav's Tap and Tack was directly next to the gate and Turner realised quickly to his horror that they were going inside. Once out of the wind he noticed a Nord sobbing at a wooden table over a pint mug and pulled his hood further down over his face as he recognised Baenlin's manservant Gromm. For the most part Gromm's drunken sobs were confessions of love for his old master, so Turner assumed that he would probably not be recognised and relaxed only slightly until he turned to see that Idari had vanished from the room. A few minutes later, however, she slipped out of the room that was near permanently occupied by the lazy Nord he suspected of robbing him with a bag of coins in her hand.

She muttered something about waiting out the storm and then heading on the Cloud Ruler Temple. She hadn't noticed Gromm at the table and why should she? She'd never been close enough to either him or Baenlin to learn their faces and she stood absolutely no chance of being recognised.

"Well met Argonian," the Nord innkeeper boomed cheerfully. "I see you've recovered well from your little... misfortune."

Turner would have scoffed at his wording had he not been shrinking back into his hood in order to pretend that he hadn't heard. If Olav recognised him then it was only a short time before Gromm got a good look at him, and then he would be arrested for murder as well.

Idari took note of the fact that Olav had seemed to recognise Turner and decided to redirect the conversation elsewhere before her cover was blown again. "By the Nine, what's your boy bawling about over there?" she exclaimed in a fake colloquial manner that had the Nord fooled in an instant.

Olav took a good long look over at Gromm and then smiled warmly. "His master Baenlin was killed in a tragic accident about a month or so ago and then he was kicked right out by his master's prick of a nephew Caenlin. He's been here drinking his sorrows away ever since."

"Accident you say?" she continued with the act so that even Turner was slightly fooled by her fake ignorance.

"Aye," Olav said gravely, his smile vanishing as he recalled the details. "A stuffed minotaur head fell on the poor fella and crushed him to death. There was no sign of any intruder so the guard ruled it as an accident. Gromm's always claimed that there was someone else in the house when Baenlin died, but nobody else came foward knowin' anythin' about it so I guess he was wrong... I think this storm's gonna last all night. D'you want anything?"

Idari glanced at Turner fleetingly and then back at the Nord. "Some food would be good," she said, sounding amicable. Inwardly though she wanted to kill Gromm so that he would shut up and Olav so that he would stop being so nosey. Ongar the World Weary, in his room next door, probably wouldn't even notice if they both happened to die on the day that he was visited by a mysterious hooded Dunmer and if he did notice then he probably wouldn't be able to put the two together.

The smell of beer and Nord filled the air quickly and burned into the Dunmer's nostrils as she ate the bread and cheese that Olav had presented to her with for fifteen gold. Turner picked at his food and ate it slowly while watching Gromm down tankard after tankard of beer until he slumped across the table and began to snore loudly in a drink-induced dream.

At about midnight Olav decided to turn himself in for the night just as the wind quieted down and stopped pounding against the wooden walls. Idari bid the Nord a good night before slipping out into the streets of Bruma with Turner following silently. As soon as they were outside she sighed in relief and breathed the fresh cold air in deeply in a feeble attempt to eradicate the horrible smell of the inn and its occupants.

"Why did you drag me in there?" Turner asked as they made their way between the houses to the north gate that led to Cloud Ruler Temple.

"I had to visit a fence," Idari said quietly so as not to draw the attention of the patrolling guards who had now regained their vision but were nearly too cold to move.

_Thieves Guild_, Turner thought miserably, _I should have guessed that that bastard Nord was Thieves Guild_. "Next time we go to the Imperial City I'm going to visit the Arcane University," he told her. "I suppose that'll be when we pay Matthias Draconis a visit..."

The Dunmer smiled inwardly, glad that the Argonian had been serious about the promise he'd made her and simply ecstatic at the thought of seeing her dear brother again. She had never planned what to do after she'd cured her brother, but she imagined that Reron would want to go back home to Sadrith Mora, and she would be only too happy to accompany him to see his estranged parents once more. By then the Oblivion Crisis would be over and Martin would be the Emperor, so she'd be free to stay in Morrowind and life would go back to the way it was. Turner would go to Black Marsh, she assumed, and he'd find out some things about his heritage or he'd stay in Cyrodiil in the Dark Brotherhood and become a half decent assassin with time and guidance...

Idari pulled herself away from her little fantasy as her mind registered the sight of Cloud Ruler Temple closing in on her and was surprised to find that they had already opened the gate in anticipation of their arrival. All she had to do now was retrieve the Amulet of Kings for Martin and then this whole ordeal would be over.

She awaited that day eagerly.

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_Author note: An author note at the end I hear you cry! I must be getting desperate. Just a brief reminder that it takes two little clicks and a few key presses to write something meaningful. The button is just there. Everyone appreciates a review! And if you review me I'll inevitably go and at least read your stories as well, just let me know if there are any you want reviewing! ~ARTY~_


	13. The Yellow Road

_Author Note: Hey, it's me again. I've kept pretty much to the schedule I plucked out of the air when replying to Nachtrae despite people telling me to wait until after I got my results. I couldn't help it, I just love writing, and despite the terribleness of the last chapter - which is briefly scheduled for a touch-up - I got 4 reviews! Which is a new record for any single one of my chapters! Anywho, I like this chapter actually, it's definitely one of my top three (i.e. 10, 11, 13) in my mind. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially DeusExfreak who so far was reviewed 11 out of the 12 chapters, an epic feat when the first drafts of the first two chapters made me want to cry with their awfulness. Anywho enjoy. Also, if you don't recognise something I've mentioned here it's because I've rewritten chapter 2 now and am in the process of touching up chapter 3. Keep reviewing my friends!_

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Chapter 13

Martin Septim - or Brother Martin as he insisted his Blades call him - was pacing about the main hall in Cloud Ruler Temple when his champion and her companion entered, flakes of snow briefly covering their black leather armour before melting away harmlessly. Baurus, as always, was nearby having assigned himself to guard over the Emperor's remaining son at all times. Martin hadn't known him take a minute off since he'd returned, using magic to maintain his stamina and hunger among other things. The heir had once told the Redguard to take a break and allow one of the other Blades to take up the arduous task, but Baurus wouldn't hear of it, blaming his own personal failure for the death of their great ruler despite the reassurance from the others that there was no truth in his fears.

The champion seemed unusually optimistic despite the fact that she had not brought back Mankar Camoran as a prisoner as Jauffre had implied for her to do. Martin decided that she must have thought of a better plan herself on her journey there or had perhaps silenced the Altmer once and for all.

However the news was far graver than it seemed.

The Dunmer allowed her Argonian counterpart to explain the situation and he outlined the events of Lake Arrius Caverns briefly, telling of Camoran's escape to his 'Paradise' and their rescue of an Argonian priest with about as much detail as the most basic of children's books. Jauffre, who seemed to materialise in the great hall almost as soon as the Hero entered, was not impressed by the failure and folded his arms with a distinct air of disappointment.

"But," the Hero declared as she delved into a pocket of the armour upon the end of the tale. "We did capture the Mysterium Xarxes. The Mythic Dawn believe that this book was sent by Mehrunes Dagon himself and should be the key to unlocking a portal to Paradise to retrieve the Amulet of Kings." She seemed in an unusually good mood, which was not an unwelcome change from her normal threatening demeanour but was just that, highly unusual.

"I will see if I can translate any of the text," Martin offered, taking the book from his champion before Jauffre had the chance to snatch it away. Few of the Blades would ever understand how he had the ability to translate the Daedric text. "Give me a few weeks and we should know the first ingredient for the ritual. Until then I'm sure Jauffre has some tasks for you."

"Though nothing the Blades can't handle alone," the Breton replied indignantly. "You probably have other people you want to be... visiting," he added with an undertone of contempt

"Indeed we do, Jauffre," the Dunmer declared, resisting the urge to wink at him childishly. "We're going to Leyawiin for a while and eventually to the Imperial City." The look on Jauffre's face showed that he was racking his brains for any possible target living there.

Turner shot her a warning look in case, in her current state of excessive jubilation, she gave away something more than she intended to. Perhaps three people at most within Cloud Ruler Temple knew of their secretive occupation, and Turner didn't particularly want to be around when the rest of the Blades figured it out and took it into their heads to end the threats to their Emperor. Jauffre accepted them because he didn't have much choice, the Argonian wasn't entirely sure who else might know, but he suspected that Martin and Baurus might considering their heavy involvement in this whole affair.

"We'll send a courier for you when I've translated part of the book," Martin offered, receiving a near matching warning look from the Grandmaster of his Blades that he brushed aside without any hint of acknowledgement.

Turner spoke up. "That will not be necessary," he said, his voice sounding unusually coarse from their time spent in the snow the previous night. "We'll return when our business has been taken care of. Maybe by then you'll have an idea of more than one of the places for us to go so you can keep us busy while you translate more. For now though we have to get going; it's a long trip and we'd like to be out of the mountains before another snow storm."

"That's understandable," Martin nodded agreeably. "May the Nine watch over you in your journey."

With nothing more than a simple nod in reply Idari was racing back through the door and towards the city of Bruma to retrieve her horse. Turner followed her slowly, nearly losing his footing on the icy road several times before they even reached the city, while the Dunmer didn't break pace in the transition from stone to ice and was unfazed by the slippery surface as each foot fell with the confidence of its immediate predecessor.

She reached the stables in good time to untie the reins of both horses, with the slight aid of a spell to warm her fingers, before the Argonian managed to catch up with her. The paint horse was slow and lethargic, it's stamina withered by the cold and it's pitiful attempts to keep up with Shadowmere and, for just a moment, Idari considered raiding the stables in search of a better horse, a certain bloodlust returning to her eyes. Turner saw the look and remembered with a shiver their first encounter with this particular stables and the untimely beheading of the Imperial man who dared to get in the Dunmer's way.

While he was glad to see her usual bloodlust return, and was thoroughly sure that the paint horse would drop dead before too long, he didn't desire to see the death of another stablehand and mounted the animal awkwardly. Idari shrugged and leapt onto Shadowmere's powerful back when she saw him, setting a slower pace than usual as they rode southwards.

The journey to Leyawiin took far longer than either of them had anticipated, and the Dunmer was eventually forced to cast a restore health and restore fatigue spell over the bleary eyed creature just so it could maintain a steady pace as each step became more and more erratic. The Yellow Road that they were travelling on was unrelenting and soldiered onwards between Cheydinhal and Leyawiin almost without a break while hugging the east bank of the Niben. It was often wondered why the Imperial City, Bravil and Leyawiin were not converted into fully functioning ports with such an important waterway stretching up to their city walls.

After the second day of being sustained only by Idari's magic supply the horse stubbornly refused to be ridden any further, collapsing to its knees like a child throwing a tantrum. In the distance, on the left side of the road, the pair of assassins could just about make out the outline of an inn and decided in a mutual unspoken agreement that they would spend the night there in order that the horse might recover perhaps enough to make it somewhere for them to purchase a new one.

The inn, the Drunken Dragon, was similar in appearance to any other inn with wooden walls and a small pen at the side for the horses of travellers. It didn't seem to be very popular either, since the paddock was empty. The Argonian blundered past the name of the inn, registering it as only a name without a meaning behind it, but the Dunmer frowned at the badly painted sign of a cartoon dragon with a small pang of recollection. Searching her pockets she pulled out the list that Turner had retrieved from Perennia Draconis and read through it again, sure enough she found what she had been looking for.

"Hey, pondscum," she hissed, reverting to the unkind nickname that she had not called him for quite some time. "This inn is where one of the targets lives."

She waved the piece of paper in his face until he read it silently, double checking with the sign just to be sure that this was indeed the right place. "We need to sleep here," he told her firmly. "Perhaps you can kill him in the morning?"

Idari growled at him. "He'll be an easier target when he's asleep, and if he's dead then we can sleep here without trouble and without paying."

The Argonian's eyes narrowed at her, his reptilian face difficult for her to read. "Alright, but if there's anybody else in there then we have to pretend to be customers, OK?"

The Dunmer sighed heavily and nodded her promise before opening the small wooden door and stepping inside. Living up to it's name, the small inn smelt strongly of alcohol and the bar was littered with bottles of wine and beer. Other than that it was a fairly typical inn with two small tables for guests to dine from and a bar from behind which the customers would be served. To the left of the door the wooden stairs led up to the guest rooms, though the layer of filth on the floorboards showed that this place was not often given any form of patronage.

Behind the bar stood an Imperial man in a long brown apron with a face that struck Turner as vaguely familiar, proving his resemblance to his unfortunate mother. Also in the bar an Imperial solider sat at one of the tables eating something that looked like bread with a tankard within reaching distance and a standard issue sword attached to his waist. Idari cursed inwardly at the sight while Turner secretly issued a sigh of relief.

"Welcome travellers!" the man behind the bar beamed at them. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Idari clenched her fists slightly as she fought the instinct to kill the man where he stood. The piece of paper had said that his name was Andreas Draconis, though his mother had refered to him mainly as Andy, and it seemed that he had finally fulfilled his dream of becoming a publican and left his family home at Applewatch.

"We need a place to stay," the Argonian told him, praising the Nine that Idari could at least begrudgingly exercise self-control. "And food for our horses."

The barman smiled at the less than unusual request. Most weary travellers usually ordered food for their animals before themselves and as such he always kept a barrel of fruit behind the bar where he slept in readiness. Sleeping behind the bar was useful for his business as travellers could turn up at any time of night, but for Idari it merely presented itself as a way to kill him without being seen.

"A room costs ten gold per night," Draconis told them. "I'm presuming you want two rooms?"

The Dunmer growled. "I'm sorry, don't you know anything about Dunmeri culture?" she asked him menacingly. "How dare you insinuate that I would want to spend the night with this... this..."

"Two rooms it is," the publican replied quickly before she had a chance to rant at him and potentially lose him two customers. Travellers were rare on this stretch of road as most people prefered to journey to Leyawiin and back via Bravil, where they could receive services and stay in their respective guilds for free rather than spending on a room at a tavern. "And animal feed will cost ten gold in total, five per animal. Your rooms are upstairs, they should be unlocked. If there's anything you need then don't hesitate to ask me."

Turner nodded graciously and threw a bag of thirty gold pieces onto the table in front of the barman before leading the way upstairs and taking a look at the tiny rooms. Each room had a bedroll and a small chest where the guests could store their items overnight.

"Hardly worth ten gold," he heard Idari grumble as she walked into her own room and close the door firmly behind her.

It seemed that at last she had recovered from the emotional trauma of the Purification and he wasn't quite so sure that that was a good thing. He decided to get some sleep in case she insisted that they leave at dawn like she usually did when they rested in the wilderness and lay on the sleeping mat uncomfortably without removing his armour, knowing that taking the time to get changed would delay his sleep, delay their departure in the morning and, most likely, not make the bedroll any more comfortable anyway. Helaid set his weapons on top of the small chest and set about trying to sleep.

Meanwhile Idari had not even contemplated sleep and was instead hatching a plan for the assassination of Andreas Draconis. Emotionally detached from the morals behind murder she considered several methods that she had used over the years and wondered just what to do with the guard to stop him from interfering. She decided that, since this was such a quiet area, the guard would probably be less alert than most and would most likely think nothing of abandoning his post to perform mundane tasks such as sleeping on the job, something he would be severely punished for if his superiors were ever to find out and something that might have been fatal for any of the Telvanni guards back in Morrowind.

As soon as the Argonian stopped shifting about in the next room Idari made her move, sneaking through the door silently and deciding to spare her companion from this assassination since he had performed so well back at Applewatch. She cast a chameleon spell over herself with a small flash of white light and peered around the corner at where the barman had been. Draconis had gone, presumably to feed the horses outside, while the guardsman remained inside gulping at the dregs of his empty tankard in the hope that it might magically refill itself. Idari had no trouble slipping outside unnoticed.

She found the publican throwing food to the horses, too scared to approach the red-eyed menace that he had found there instead of the innocent animal that he had been expecting. She allowed her chameleon spell to dissipate and straightened herself up so that she did not appear as suspicious when the spell wore off.

Draconis noticed her standing there after perhaps a minute and turned to face her with a wary smile, remembering her earlier outburst but still trying to remain friendly.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked amicably, sidestepping away from the horses as he saw the black one shift out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes," Idari replied, a fake friendly tone lacing her voice instantly as she rummaged through her pockets. "You are Andreas Draconis?"

The innkeeper narrowed his eyes slowly and nodded uneasily. "Why do you ask?"

"Your mother gave me this list," she told him, retrieving the piece of paper and handing it to him. "She asked me to find presents for each of her children and I was having a little trouble finding your sister Sibylla." This was, at least in part, the truth, as Perennia Draconis had included no directions to Muck Valley Cavern. "I was wondering if you could help?"

The frown on Draconis' face lessened slightly as he saw his mother's handwriting on the small piece of paper. "Sibby lives in a cave south of Cheydinhal," he said after a little thought. "It's quite hard to find, but it's west of some daedric shrine... Vaermina, I think." He handed back the paper as a thought crossed his mind. "How is mother? Is she keeping well all alone up there?"

Idari smiled maliciously from beneath her hood, the moonlight making her appear more sinister and highlighting her blue lips as they curled upwards. "You needn't worry about your mother anymore," she told him, her voice sickly sweet. "She bled as any pig like her ought to."

Andreas Draconis' eyes widened as he attempted to make sense of what she'd said for only a second. "What've you done to my mother?" he demanded with a loud shout, drawing an iron dagger.

"Nobody can hurt her anymore," the assasin replied, her eyes glinting with a powerful thirst for his blood.

The look of comprehension on the innkeeper's face was accompanied with a feeble slash of his dagger that would have bounced off of the Dunmer's armour harmlessly if she hadn't taken a step backwards out of his reach. Shadowmere, sensing a threat to his rider, thrashed against the bonds that held him to the wooden fence violently, spooking the other animal and gaining himself a satisfied grin from his latest owner.

Idari leapt over the fence in one fluid movement as Draconis slashed at her again and had her sword in her hand before her feet even touched the ground. With the fence between them and the additional reach of the assassin's shortsword versus the small dagger the publican didn't stand a chance yet didn't give up, prepared to fight to the death to avenge his mother's cruel demise.

In a streak of silver her sword made contact with his side, slicing through easily until it hit a rib and came to an abrupt halt. Draconis cried out in pain and thrust his dagger forwards in vain as the Dunmer withdrew her sword and vaulted back over the fence. The publican clutched his bloody wound and attempted to chase her, wheeling uncontrollably and stumbling often until he finally fell down weakly on the muddy ground. Idari watched him for a moment as he still tried to struggle after her despite his loss of blood and for a moment found herself admiring his courage in the face of death.

Approaching his body, she kicked the dagger out of his hand. While he made a concerted effort to hold onto it his fingers were severely weakened and he groaned as he saw his weapon glint in the moonlight only a few feet out of his reach. Shadowmere continued to thrash about despite the threat being vanquished and the wooden fence creaked under the strain of the fearsome animal, splintering in places.

Hit by a sudden idea the Dunmer used a command humanoid spell to move the semi-conscious Imperial closer to the horse which tugged harder at its restraints as she did so. The creature struck the dying man in the stomach with a powerful kick that shattered several ribs and drove the breath from his lungs with great force. Idari let the spell drop the publican's now unconscious body beneath the hooves of the maniacal beast and watched unmoved as the man was finished off swiftly by stamping his full weight onto Draconis' head, smashing it like a watermelon and spewing both blood and brains across the muddy ground as his murderer wiped her sword in the damp grass.

Calming her horse with a spell she then placed the dagger back in the innkeeper's sheath so that he appeared to have been killed in a tragic incident rather than attacked by an assassin.

Idari took a minute to admire her handiwork before plastering a fake expression of shock across her face, allowing her hood to slip back slightly, and ran into the inn in a mock state of terror.

"Are you alright, miss?" the Imperial guard asked sleepily when he saw her, evidently woken from his sleep as she slammed the door open.

"The innkeeper, he's... he's..." Idari had feigned terror at death enough times in her life to know just exactly what people found believable.

The guard was on his feet in an instant, guiding the Dunmer to a chair carefully. "What happened?"

She shook her head and pretended to cry. "My horse," she said sadly through sobs of fake tears. "He just went crazy, I don't know what happened..."

The guard's face softened slightly. "I'll take care of that. You should go and get some rest, miss. You must be in shock."

Idari nodded and kept up the pretence as he guided her to her room, thanked him through sobs and then grinned in triumph.

And she'd barely done a thing.

By the time morning came the body had been dealt with by the guard and Idari felt it appropriate to drop her act , pretending to be little more than shaken when she next saw the guard. He'd done a good job of it, and the calming spell that she'd used on Shadowmere probably did the trick to get him in there alive long enough to remove the body and clean up the muddy paddock slightly.

When Turner awoke he was confused for only a few minutes about what had taken place the previous night. Unlike the traumatised guard he noticed the telltale signs, the blood trail leading up to the horse where Andreas Draconis had dragged himself, the bloody smear on a patch of grass where Idari had cleaned her shortsword, the light splattering of blood on the stretch of fence that was too far away to have been sprayed by the horses hooves. The things were easily missed and easily mistaken for coincidence. That was why Idari Mortha was a master of assassination.

The guard bid them a sad farewell and prepared to send Draconis' body back to his mother at their family home near Bruma. '_A tragic accident_' he wrote in the note that he intended to leave on the door of the inn to explain why it was '_closed until further notice_'.

The Argonian was surprised to find that Idari rode not towards Leyawiin but back in the direction of Cheydinhal, however he thought better of it to ask her where she thought they were going once they'd left the earshot of the Imperial guard.

"Andreas Draconis told me where to find his sister," she explained to him simply. "I don't know my way around the caves in this province so he saved us a trip. It just so happens that she lives in a cave slightly south of Cheydinhal and this way we can ride back via Bravil instead of trekking around here again."

"I don't think this horse is going to make it that far..." Turner pointed out as the animal nearly lost its footing for the third time in an hour.

Idari paused briefly as if considering something before speaking. "Tell you what," she said conversationally. "After this you go up to Cheydinhal, buy a horse and then head out to the Arcane University or whatever, and I'll go down to Leyawiin and finish the contract except for Matthias Draconis. I can meet you somewhere in the Imperial City..."

"You don't want to get rid of me?" the Argonian asked her suspiciously.

The question stopped her dead in her tracks. "What?" she asked almost automatically.

"Well a while ago everything that had happened between us was my fault," he explained with a slight smile. "You blamed me for your promotion to Silencer among other things, and I just thought that you would jump at the opportunity to get rid of me."

Idari raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Yeah, well, admittably you had a _slightly_ better plan than me in Lake Arrius Caverns, and I need to you find a cure for my brother," she told him in a low voice that he could barely hear.

Turner chuckled quietly. "So you _do_ admit that my plan was better than yours. I knew it. I'll meet you in the Temple of the One. I'd like to find out if Jeelius made it back alright."

When the Dunmer made no reply he assumed that she must have accepted his plan of action, but he suspected that it had probably taken a lot out of her to admit defeat. After the High Elves the Dunmer were perhaps the most proud of all the races on Tamriel and it was a big step for one as stubborn as Idari to say that an Argonian had had a better plan than her in the long run.

Muck Valley Cavern was a small cave slightly south-west of Cheydinhal and the home of Sibylla Draconis and her animal friends. As soon as the pair of assassins opened the door they were sprung upon by a feral wolf that gnashed its snarling teeth in the direction of an Argonian armed with a bow and a small dagger. For perhaps a second Idari hesitated to help him in order to see what he might do and it was evident to her that he'd come a long way since killing a wolf with his bare hands and a conveniently placed rock. After a few seconds of reaction time she watch him reach for the dagger at his hip and then, after a brief hesitation, sink it into the wolf's stomach.

Turner threw the wolf's carcass off of him and shuddered at the blood that had flowed all over his armour. He tore the dagger out of the body and flinched at the sound of ripping flesh that accompanied it.

"You're still squeamish!" Idari pointed out with a little smirk.

"You ever heard of helping someone?" he snapped at her viciously before running into the cave, his bow drawn into his left hand and an arrow nocked with his right.

The Dunmer followed him with a sigh, leaping over the wolf corpse and catching up to him in a matter of seconds. The growling ahead of them indicated more fierce creatures about and the pair of assassins braced themselves for whatever might be sharing the cave with their target.

In the darkness a simple night eye spell sufficed to give Idari an edge over her companion and her katana found its mark in the neck of a brown bear easily, decapitating the creature as it ran forwards to attack. Meanwhile Turner stuck a rogue rat full of steel arrows as it entered the narrow passage of light cast by the open doorway. Idari ran forwards through the cave leaving Turner in an area where he could at least see in order to use his bow.

The cave was small and as such Sibylla Draconis was only slightly out of sight of the doorway, crouching over a small fire and tearing at a hunk of meat like an animal and unaffected by the creatures about her. Perennia Draconis' letter had been right, she was barely clothed and was wearing only a pair of trousers and what appeared to be a bra and armband; according to her mother she had always loved animals and would probably attack on sight as she'd practically lost her mind.

She wasn't wrong either. "Oi, Draconis!" Idari shouted through the semi-darkness, whistling loudly in order to get the message across.

Sibylla snapped around in an instant, crouched low and emitted a feral snarl akin to the animals she shared her home with, a dagger in her hands and her teeth bared savagely. She ran at the Dunmer with unexpected speed while all around her her animal 'friends' fell to arrows and her ferocity only increased, her bare feet not making a sound as they padded the cave floor gently.

The assassin braced herself for the impact, katana in hand, and easily sidestepped the charging Imperial as if dodging a speeding bull, bringing her sword down across the woman's shoulder blades in a single swift movement. The cave dweller roared with pain in a sound similar to the sound her animal companions had made when riddled with arrows and unable to carry on, but still her dagger flashed out fiercely as crimson blood snaked its way down her limbs from the deep wound over her left arm. The small blade made impact with the leather armour and did little more than harmlessly rip the material, but Sibylla Draconis was unrelenting, slashing away despite her injury with near limitless energy until an arrow imbedded itself deeply in her right upper arm and the dagger dropped from her now useless arm.

The look in the target's eyes flashed from endless anger to indescribable fear as she searched her home for any form of escape, her uncivilized nature abandoned in an instant to return to the Imperial lifestyle that she had once known.

"M-Mercy," she stuttered in a voice that had obviously not been used for quite some time. It was a longshot to ask for mercy and she knew it was unlikely, accepting her grim fate and allowing herself to be thankful for the fact that she died with her chosen friends in her chosen home.

The female in the black hood wielding a big sword shook her head and in the firelight she seemed to almost be grinning. Sibylla lowered her head painfully in defeat, blood covering most of the upper half of her body like a gruesome tattoo and dropped to her knees, her useless right arm brushing against the rocky floor while the fingers of her left clenched tightly into a ball. Even one so detached from Imperial civilization knew that attempting to escape would be suicide.

What impressed Idari the most, despite the determination of the feral woman in the face of such an event, was the fact that Sibylla didn't even shed a tear as she raised her katana for the final killing blow, didn't fight it or struggle like others had done, didn't try to run, didn't even flinch until the sword struck the base of her neck with such force that her head was severed from her shoulders in a single blow.

_Perhaps_, Idari found herself wondering as she admired just how clean the cut had been, _this Draconis woman may have been a worthy opponent, given a decent weapon, armour and a little training._

Turner appeared in the doorway, took one look at the corpse and swayed uneasily at the sight of the severed head lying in a pool of blood that was soaking into the woman's matted hair. "I'll meet you in the Temple of the One," he croaked, resisting the urge to vomit as he forced his eyes to focus on something else.

Idari nodded absentmindedly and watched him as he left the cave, forcing herself to brush aside the thought that the fight might have still been going on without his timely assistance and then, with the aid of a telekinesis spell, laid the body of Sibylla Draconis out peacefully and placed her dagger next to her in a true sign of respect to the fallen warrior. Then, all else being done, she departed Muck Valley Cavern for her horse outside and rode away without even so much as a glance backwards.


	14. The Arcane University

_Author Note: Heh, this chapter is alright. It took a while longer than most, partly because I started it, had writers block for two days then scrapped it and started again yesterday, and partly because I'm trying to help a friend by writing something else at the moment. There's a new character of mine in this chapter. He's come out a little differently than I'd planned, but I like the way he is, even though he's kind of angsty... Yeah well, this is the first chapter to be completely devoid of Idari, who was never supposed to be the main character in the first place. Feel free to nit pick. I've read it through twice now and I can't see anything major like rapid changes in emotion as in the first 5 chapters, but if you see something off then let me know and I'll have a look._

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Chapter 14

The Black Waterside Stables in Cheydinhal sold the best horses in all of Cyrodiil. The horses sold there were unparalleled in speed, and second in strength only to the white horses sold in the stables near Anvil.

The stables themselves were run by two Dark Elves with a keen eye for anyone they could make a decent amount of money from; so of course they saw Turner coming a mile away, his paint horse slacking and on its last legs and a bag of coins visible in the pocket of his sleek leather armour which he'd forgotten to move after paying Andreas Draconis for his troubles, an action which had proven thoroughly fruitless.

The Argonian purchased a black horse from the ostler for the unreasonable price of 5000 coins before departing the city at a speed which he was unused to after bidding an unsentimental farewell to the horse that had carried him across the province.

The horse watched him go with an air of relief, glad to see the back of the Argonian and Dunmer who had dragged her almost completely around the province as they gallivanted about without thought for the consequences. The Dunmeri woman who looked after the horses at the Black Waterside Stables seemed nice compared to some of the other people the poor paint horse had experienced and evidently took good care of the horses that lived there as they all seemed fit and healthy, so the old horse began to relax.

Turner spent about a day and a half riding around the Red Ring Road to the Imperial City. It would have been quicker to simply enter the city from the east and travel through that way, however the stables were located on the western side of the city on the slither of land connecting City Isle to the rest of Cyrodiil. After leaving his new 5000 septim investment in the Chestnut Handy Stables he set off into the city for what he would soon realise was the very first time after asking directions to the Arcane University from the Orc woman he had paid to take care of the animal that he had named 'Snowdrop'.

Compared to the other towns that the Argonian had visited the Imperial City was larger and busier than anything he'd ever seen before. Cheydinhal was the next grandest city in Cyrodiil and was still uncomparable to the sheer size and grandeur of the place he now stood in. The White Gold Tower, something Turner had only ever seen from a distance, stood out strikingly against the horizon behind the grey stone walls that separated the sections of the city and cast its large shadow over varying districts as the sun travelled its course through the sky.

It was truly beautiful, a symbol of the empire and the royal seat of Tamriel, but still the Argonian dressed in black leather from head to toe ran past it without a care or even so much as a fleeting glance. He intended to reach the Arcane University before it became unacceptable to be visiting, despite the fact that it was well known that the experiments of mages kept them awake at all hours of day and night as they researched various spells and potions to better the lives of the people of the province.

All of the best mages in the empire flocked to the Arcane University to continue their studies; so many, in fact, that they'd had to introduce a system whereby potential candidates were required to receive recommendations from each guildhall around the province before they were even considered worthy the enter the hallowed halls of the university.

While it was still located on City Isle the university was set apart from the main city by a short stretch of stone walkway flanked on either side by flaming torches that burned with a cold flame, presumably to prevent people being injured and to keep the bridge at a reasonable temperature to walk across. Turner took a moment to admire the large torches as he walked across the bridge, now confident that he could reach the university before nightfall, and remembered with a smile his very first attempt at a fireball spell in the Bruma Guild of Mages, the patch singed into the wooden ceiling and the look on Jeanne Frasoric's face when it gave out two days later under the sheer weight of snow, dumping it onto an experiment of hers as she tried to work. Volanaro and J'skar had been impressed with his accuracy, but that had been the day when Jeanne, normally a patient woman, had sent him out looking for work elsewhere.

The Arcane University, like the city itself, was circular in shape and split into sections. In the centre of the circle stone stairs led up to the Wizards Tower in which the Arch-Mage Hannibal Traven resided, the Council of Mages held their sessions and visitors to the university were greeted. On the other side of the tower, and separated from the public by a high stone wall, was the university itself, providing invaluable services and resources to the mages inside to such an extent that many never felt the need to leave again once they'd arrived. The soil of the university had been magically enhanced to grow all manner of alchemical ingredients which were essential to even the least skilled alchemist and invaluable to the best. While the alchemists in the individual towns could sell perhaps a few of the ingredients needed, the Arcane University was the only place in Tamriel where so many ingredients could be found without extensive searching.

The university had everything the budding mage could ever want for, and even its own legion of battlemages for when things turned sour.

A mage who had never visited the Arcane University could hardly be called a mage at all.

Turner sheepishly asked a battlemage just who he was supposed to speak to and was directed to the tower through the main entrance at the front. The only thing that set a battlemage apart from an average legion soldier in appearance was their enchanted armour and the blue hood they wore in place of the helmet, many even appeared to be carrying around the same standard issue weaponry and performing the exact same duties as their lesser trained counterparts. Personally, however, the Argonian didn't intend to be picking a fight with any of the guards in the Imperial City anytime soon.

Despite being the occasional contract killer, he was still a law-abiding citizen and did not intend to find himself on the bad side of any of the guards until he'd at least learnt how to use a blade and shield in self-defence.

The inside of the tower was not nearly as impressive as the outside; some benches were arranged in perfect straight lines to the right of the door while a desk covered in various magical equipment and a teleportation pad were to the right. At the back of the tower were three wooden doors that presumably led to the main university and to one side of those was a locked display case containing what looked like soul gems.

The circular room was nearly empty save for an Imperial man wearing a long blue robe and a middle-aged Altmer wearing a dark green robe and a black hood that fell across most of his face. While the Imperial smiled warmly at the Argonian as he entered, the High Elf simply shrank further away on the bench he was sitting on and turned his back antisocially. Turner decided that he would rather try his luck with the Imperial.

"Welcome friend," the Imperial beamed as the Argonian approached timidly. "What brings you to the Arcane University? Do you seek to enter?"

Turner shook his head silently, glad that the leather hood shrouded his identity from the Imperial man so that he would not be recognised as the failed Argonian mage from the guildhall in Bruma. "I seek a cure for vampirism," he said in a low voice, though evidently the Altmer had heard as he began to shift uncomfortably at the words.

The Imperial's smile shrank into a slight frown of incomprehension before returning again, a look of understanding dancing behind his friendly eyes. "We do not have one here at the university," the man explained, and out of the corner of his eye Turner could have sworn he saw the Altmer flinch involuntarily. "However I have been made aware that Janus Hassildor, the Count of Skingrad, is offering a reward for finding the cure. Perhaps it would be wise to approach him and ask for any information he might have. You evidently don't have the disease yourself, since it's still light outside and you appear to have arrived here in good health, so might I enquire why you're searching for a cure?"

"It's for a friend of mine," Turner lied impulsively. Even if the potion had been for Idari herself the pair were still little more than acquaintances, so to call themselves friends would be a vast exaggeration.

"Ah," the Imperial said, his expression becoming unreadable for a second. "You must offer my condolences to your friend for their misfortune. My name is Raminus Polus and I am in charge of all new initiates to the Arcane University, considered by some to be the second-in-command of the Mages Guild, however that is probably just a drastic overstatement. Your name, Argonian?"

The question caught Turner off-guard and his mind began to race in search of a fake name. "My name?" he asked rhetorically, buying himself a little more time to think. "My name is... Shoots-An-Arrow, I'm... an adventurer."

For a brief moment the mage did not appear to believe his lies, but then he smiled again. "Your name is rather apt, friend," he said with a small chuckle. Turner resisted the urge to roll his eyes, that was exactly the reason that he had chosen that as his fake name. "Perhaps once you have found the cure you might return here with news of how to acquire one?"

The Argonian nodded and then turned on his heels to leave. He didn't expect that he would be able to make it all the way to Skingrad, audience the count and make it back before Idari arrived in the Imperial City, however if he were to leave a message with Jeelius in the Temple of the One for her then he suspected that he might only keep her waiting for a day or two, and in that time she could easily deal with Matthias Draconis herself. He was relatively confident that she wouldn't be too angry with his actions considering that she and her family would be the ones to benefit from them, however he decided that leaving a message for her was obviously the best course of action as she would hardly appreciate him turning up several days after they'd agreed to meet.

Raminus Polus made no further attempts to speak until after he'd left and was outside asking an Imperial battlemage for directions to the Temple District, hoping to arrive before Jeelius left for the night. As soon as the door had closed after the Argonian the Altmer turned around again, his prominent cheekbones and pale red eyes making his situation clear. Raminus thought it a strange act of the Nine that two people seeking the same thing should approach him on the same day, a coincidence that could only have occured for some kind of divine purpose.

"Do you think that Argonian will be capable of finding a cure?" the Altmer asked, his voice laboured as he fought to control his new abilities and his eyes closing with the effort.

Raminus made no move as if to reply, but simply stared at the vampire beneath the hood for a long while. "Perhaps you should assist him from the shadows. It is unsafe for you to remain here in the university in your condition and other mages would soon begin to complain. It might even be an idea to approach him and ask for help as he seems a compassionate soul and I expect that he would happily aid you."

"But what of my duties to the Mages Guild?"

The Master-Wizard smiled. "Your loyalty will not go unnoted, however any duties we had for you cannot be completed with you in your current state. It looks to be twilight, so you shouldn't take too much damage," he said as he pulled a roll of parchment from the pocket of his robe. "However take this healing spell just in case I am mistaken. If you feed on a bandit then you shouldn't take damage from the sun for a good twenty-four hours and your quest will be easier."

A pair of red eyes shifted to the floor uneasily and a pair of golden fists clenched tightly. "The necromancers will not wait for me to be cured. I cannot abandon my cause without acquiring a guilty conscience."

"There are other mages in the university who can be trusted with this sensitive information, Warlock," the Imperial reassured him, waving the scroll up and down until the fledgling vampire snatched it from him and stuffed it into a pocket. "Archmage Traven will be glad to hear of your recovery when you return, and as you know of the count's... sensitive nature it might be best that you do go with the Argonian so that he is not scared out of his wits and does not give up on his journey because of it."

The High Elf nodded unhappily and strode towards the door with a pompous air of defeat. "Then I shall get going," he said tersely as he pulled open the wooden door. "I don't want him to get so far ahead that I lose him."

By the time Raminus opened his mouth to reply the Altmeri vampire had already vanished from the doorway and taken off towards the city.

xxx

Turner pushed open the door to the Temple of the One quickly. His intention was not to stay in the Temple for very long at all, mostly to just give a message for Idari to Jeelius and then to depart for Skingrad at the earliest opportunity.

Jeelius was, indeed, still in the Temple when Turner arrived and was now garbed in a grey robe and hood, a far cry from what he had last been seen wearing at Lake Arrius Caverns.

The Temple itself was nothing special without the Dragonfires lit, resembling nothing more than an empty circular room. Only one of Dragonblood wielding the Amulet of Kings could possibly relight the holy Dragonfires, however with the Amulet lost to Mankar Camoran and the only remaining Dragonborn doubting his very origins it seemed unlikely that the Dragonfires would ever be relit and the Temple would remain another unimportant building until the end of time.

The priest grinned broadly when he caught sight of the assassin. "Greetings, my friend, I am truly honoured by your presence."

Turner nodded respectfully. "The honour is mine, Jeelius," he said flatly. "However I am not here to stay for much longer than a few minutes. My... acquaintance, the Dunmer, is supposed to meet me here in a couple of days time, however I have to go to Skingrad urgently. So I was wondering whether you could pass on the message to her?"

Jeelius' grin faded slightly as the assassin spoke, but he maintained a significantly happy expression as he listened. "Of course. You know, I never found out your names, perhaps you would humour me?"

"I couldn't do that," the assassin replied with little thought. "She's obsessed with staying anonymous in Cyrodiil, and I wouldn't want to jeopardise the already strained relationship that I have with her by flaunting her name about the Imperial City. Tell her to go ahead and make the delivery to Matthias, and that I shall meet her here in a few days time. I don't intend to be very long at all, so make sure that she doesn't leave the city... This won't be a burden to you, will it?"

The priest shook his head with a friendly smile. "It was not too much of a burden for you to save my life, so it shall never be too much of a burden for me to pass on a simple message. Think of it as... returning the favour. If you ever need anything feel free to return here and I will aid you to the best of my ability."

"Thank you very much," Turner said politely before backing towards the door smoothly. "I don't intend to be very long, so farewell for now."

Jeelius waved as he departed with a small curt nod. For a moment Turner was very glad that the priest didn't know of his real occupation, as perhaps he would not be so willing to help, but then again, it occured to him, whatever passtime he partook in, he had still saved the priest's life and was still owed a debt of gratitude whatever the circumstances. That being said, Turner has no intention of revealing his career option to the priest unless his very life depended on it.

The sky was dark by the time he had returned to the Chestnut Handy Stables and removed Snowdrop from their care. The new horse might not have as much trouble keeping up with Shadowmere as the last one had, but it still didn't equal half the beast that the purple-skinned, red-eyed menace did. Snowdrop was just an average beast of burden, while Shadowmere was something entirely different. Nobody could ever really figure out just what made Shadowmere so special.

xxx

The shadow of night suited the Altmer vampire as he cast an invisibility spell over himself and snuck up on the Argonian in the stables, a small but lethal dagger in his hand and a desire to make an impression in his heart. He was not yet used to his vampiric senses, his speed and strength had increased more than every book in the Mystic Archives could possibly convey, and if he stopped to listen he might have noticed that his sight, hearing and smell had each increased too. However the vampire was more concerned with removing this curse than with embracing the changes that had undergone his Altmeri body.

Perhaps if he had stopped to savour it, he might have actually even enjoyed his afterlife.

Turner froze up as he felt the coldness of metal against the skin of his neck. His first thought was that maybe it was Idari, but then again she was not the type to kill someone of use to her, then he thought that maybe the assassin among assassins had caught up with him and was here to end his pitifully short existance, but the dagger didn't move, didn't attempt to slice his neck or dig into his skin, it just hovered there like someone making a point.

"What do you want?" he asked, surprising himself at how level his voice remained. Then again, this was hardly the first time that he'd had a dagger to his throat.

The vampire hissed angrilly, wondering why the Argonian was not quivering in fear. "You seek a cure for vampirism," he spoke in an awkward hissing tone that was unusual to his cultured race. "I seek one too."

"You're a vampire?" Turner asked in a matter of fact way that annoyed the Altmer still further. He didn't strain to see his attacker as he knew that the knife at his throat would not allow him that sort of scope for movement, however he could tell, beneath the hissing, that the vampire was a mer of some kind. He presumed, considering his knowledge of Turner's quest, that this vampire was likely to be the hooded Altmer from the Arcane University.

"That doesn't worry you?" the Altmer asked in shock, as if he were expecting the Argonian to be a wimpering mess by now.

"You aren't the first vampire I've met," he received in reply, and the Altmer mentally kicked himself since the Argonian was looking for a cure for his friend after all. His assumptions were wrong, of course, but it saved Turner from explaining how he had come to meet a vampire. "I am, however, worried by the knife at my throat. If you would release me I might be able to help you."

The vampire paused a moment, as if he hadn't considered that he still had his knife to the Argonian's throat, and was shocked that he was actually offering to help him after this awkward meeting. He removed his blade in a jerked movement and sheathed the dagger at his waist. The assassin turned around to see the High Elf vampire, still dressed in a dark green robe and black hood, but with his fangs and red eyes visible even through the blackness of the night.

"You don't look very progressed in your disease," Turner said as he looked at the Altmer's face. "That means you should still be able to travel in daylight, at least for a limited amount of time." He was glad that he'd actually taken the time to ask Vicente a few things about vampirism when he'd been training in the sanctuary, for they were finally becoming useful to him now. "My name is Shoots-An-Arrow," he said, determined to at least keep the same fake name with every person he spoke with. If he had told Jeelius this fake name he knew that Idari would never know who the message was from, so perhaps it would have been better to remain completely anonymous. "Do you have a name?"

The vampire's aged face contorted into a frown. "I am known as Seanturco. I'm of Warlock rank in the Mages Guild, despite the fact that I have chosen to wear the robes of an apprentice; these robes are darker and provide better camoflage for travelling at night, particularly in my... condition. Raminus Polus believes I can be of some use to you when you speak with Janus Hassildor, but I intend to return to the university as soon as I am cured."

"And you are in good control of your bloodlust?" the Argonian asked him, concerned as he watched the vampire's eyes continually returning to look at the vein in his neck. The Altmer nodded weakly. "Perhaps you should take blood from one of the horses here... It won't maintain you for long, but without blood your condition will only get worse and you will be unable to keep control."

"I can control myself just fine," Seanturco snapped with an arrogance afforded only to the High Elves of the Summerset Isles. "I would not _stoop_ to drawing blood from these... these _beasts_."

Turner's golden eyes flashed angrilly in the moonlight. "If you do not feed, you will die, and then there'll be no returning to the Arcane University, will there? The less you feed, the more weakened you will become, and you will take sun damage, your appearance will age further, and nobody within a twenty mile radius will ever speak to you again. Guards will try to kill you, people will hate you and attack at the first opportunity, and very soon you will end up very definitely _dead_, so I suggest that you take blood from one of those _damned horses_ now, or so help me I'll end you quickly right now!" The Argonian paused with a slight double take as he watched the expression on the Altmer's face change from shock to fear to determination. Turner didn't quite understand how he'd ended up sounding quite so much like Idari, even in her absence.

Perhaps some of her character flaws had rubbed off on him.

The High Elf's resolve had failed him. "How do you suggest I go about feeding on one then?" he asked with a fearful tone in his voice.

The assassin could not remember ever asking Vicente about the feeding techniques of a vampire and racked his memory for any form of an idea. "I suggest you paralyse it so it doesn't bolt and then drink from it. Apparently vampires have good hearing and vision, so you should be able to find a vein or something. How long exactly have you been a vampire?"

Seanturco glared at him with eyes as sharp as daggers. "I was infected perhaps three days ago, and didn't realise my predicament until it was too late and now I'm stuck as this accursed _monster_ until I find a cure."

He cast a powerful paralysis spell on his chosen chestnut horse, a strong looking animal that would not be too badly affected if drained of a few pints of blood. Breathing deeply to calm his senses, the vampire located a vein near the surface of the skin on the horse's neck and punctured the skin with his sharp fangs. The blood was repulsive and sickly, but as soon as it made contact with his golden Altmeri lips he was unable to pull himself away, drinking it down as it flowed into his mouth.

Turner looked away in disgust as the blood flowed out. It trickled down the Altmer's chin and dripped onto the ground below, the vile stench of death carried with it. The Argonian didn't doubt that on his first ever feed the High Elf would not be able to exercise enough self-control to stop himself from drinking the creature dry, but the blood would sustain him for long enough to reach Skingrad and return even if it did little else, and the experience would teach him a valuable lesson in vampirism.

The horse's eyes, widened in fear as it remained paralysed, clouded over as its blood was drained; it's limbs became shaky and the animal found itself unable to move even after the paralysis spell had worn off, succumbing to a fearful and no doubt painful death at the hands of a mage.

When the blood stop flowing the vampire wrenched his lips away in anguish, his eyes now deep red with the excess blood in his system, and fought against his senses to gorge on another innocent creature. Seanturco shook in disbelief as he lay a bony golden hand on the shoulder of the creature that he had put an end to, unable to believe that he had commited such a heinous crime, and withdrew it with haste when he noticed that his fingers were tainted with blood.

"I am a murderer," he whispered as he gazed into the eyes of the dead animal. The words stung Turner when he heard them, a gruesome reminder of how he had felt upon his first murder, and a pit of guilt manifested itself in his stomach even though he knew that this would have had to happen sooner or later.

The Argonian mounted his horse with perhaps a little more fluidity than he could usually manage. "The sooner we reach Skingrad the sooner your ordeal will be over," he called back to the vampire who was still stuck staring at the horse, pulling Seanturco back to his Altmeri senses instead of his vampiric ones. "You are not a murderer," he attempted to comfort him, his voice quieted so that he did not alert the ostlers of the stables as they slept, easy targets for an angry vampire. "Think of it as self-defence or self-preservation. You did not mean to kill it, and next time you will be better at controlling yourself when you feed."

"There will not be a next time," the High Elf said in a low, guilt ridden voice. "I am a monster." The dagger appeared in his hand again, his time angled towards his own chest.

The blade was made of iron, a small comfort to Turner who knew that a vampire could not be injured by anything that was not made of silver or enchanted, but he did not like the thought of the mage attempting to end his own life after killing just one animal. "If you kill yourself you'll be food for the necromancers," the assassin told him, and the comment seemed to do the trick as the Altmer looked away from his knife in shock and returned it to its sheath.

"The sooner I am cured, the better," he said before taking off on foot at a pace unlike Turner had ever witnessed before. He knew that vampires possessed superior speed, and Snowdrop had no trouble in keeping up, but he had never expected anything quite as spectacular as what he saw before him now.

At the pace the vampire kept up they reached Skingrad in the early morning. It was not a long trip from the Imperial City to Skingrad and would normally have taken little more than a day on foot or half a day on horseback, but the assassin and mage reached the town in even less time, leaving Turner even more glad that he had bought a new horse before setting out for the city.

The town itself was small but grand, cleaved completely in two by the Gold Road running through its centre which conveniently separated the paupers from the rich landowners. The area was famous for its wines, and two of the very best brands of wines in Tamriel were brewed in Skingrad, meaning most of the townsfolk were employed in the vinyards just outside the city walls. The streets of Skingrad were narrow, and the stone houses stretched into the sky, giving the place an unintentional sense of foreboding in the hours of darkness and easy access to the other houses for budding thieves, as many of the balconies on either side of the street met with only a short jump between them.

Both the assassin and the mage sought to shield their identities with their hoods so that the guards and townsfolk would not pay attention to them, each for a different reason but primarily to achieve the same goal. Castle Skingrad was outside the town itself and they made their way there after Seanturco admitted that he'd visited the count before on Mages Guild business.

As soon as they mentioned their search for a cure for vampirism to the count's steward, an Argonian woman named Hal-Liurz, it was all she could do to stop herself from running to fetch him, just about managing to walk at a quickened, but still dignified, fashion.

Turner had a good idea of what to expect of Count Janus Hassildor. Vicente had often let slip that he was not the only one to 'enjoy his evenings', and the fact that the count had not been seen publically in many years simply confirmed the fact that he was hiding something. He was a good and just leader of his people, but he was not very 'hands-on' with his people. The various theories about him had spread all across Cyrodiil.

Seanturco fidgeted uncomfortably. He had spoken with the count before, the count had once aided him in a fight with some necromancers and then demanded thanks despite the fact that all of the three necromancers were dead before he'd even raised a finger to attack them, but it had been in completing a harebrained task for the count that he'd been infected with porphyric haemophilia, and ultimately he did not think that the count was going to be impressed with his returning in this state.

Hassildor followed his steward down the stairs from his chambers with a smooth, regal gait and a patient expression. Turner could tell that he had been a vampire for many years, his face aged far more greatly than the potrait of him in human form hanging on the wall and his fangs expertly hidden just as Vicente had always taken care to do. Remembering Vicente made his stomach churn and he forced himself to focus on the task at hand instead of dwelling on the past, but he couldn't quite shake the image of the dead vampire's corpse from his mind.

"What do you want?" the count demanded. His voice was smooth as any Imperial's but bitter and twisted at the same time.

It was Turner who spoke first. "We seek to find a cure for vampirism. Raminus Polus at the Arcane University said that you might have some information as you also seek the cure."

"I do not seek the cure for myself," Hassildor said tersely, his red eyes narrowing slightly. "Some years ago my wife Rona and I were infected with vampirism. While I embraced the changes, she did not, refusing to feed until she grew so weak that she slipped into a coma from which she has not awoken. My sources have told me that there is one woman capable of making a cure for my wife, a witch named Melisande who lives near the ruins of Vahtecan. You will be greatly rewarded if you bring the cure back for my wife, not to mention that I will be eternally indebted to you..." He paused briefly. "I presume that you were infected by the vampires in Bloodcrust Cavern?"

Seanturco did not reply for about a minute, his mind failing to process that he was being spoken to all of a sudden, then he nodded. "Once the vampire hunters were all dead I didn't notice the last remaining vampire until it was too late. He got me before I had a chance to react. I know the ruins of Vahtecan so finding this witch should not be too much trouble."

The count smiled slightly, but kept his lips pressed together so that his fangs did not show. "You will never make it all the way to Vahtecan without feeding, mage," he replied with the voice of a far superior vampire and the authority that came with his status as Count of Skingrad. "_I_ cannot afford to have vampire hunters in Skingrad, for obvious reasons, however feel free to feed on anybody outside of my town walls. Animal blood will never sustain you that far as it can only provide a small respite to the sun. Sometimes sacrifices must be made..."

The Altmer appeared to pale at the concept, his hood shielding most of his face and making the majority of his expression incredibly hard to fathom. Turner simply inclined his head to the count and made his way towards the door, the vampire following him as if in some kind of a trance.

"Sacrifices?" Seanturco whispered to himself as soon as they were outside, raising a golden hand into a shaft of sunlight and waiting for a reaction. His skin did not burn in the light, which was a good sign at least, but he was immediately aware of a pain seering through his arm, causing him to drop it back to his side and recover it with the sleeve of his robe. "Sacrifices," he repeated with more assertion, pulling his hood further down so that his whole face was shrouded in shadow. He knew that without the blood his robe and hood would be of no protection to the sun whatsoever and he would very quickly die, magically restored or not.

Turner watched the High Elf with great interest, knowing that he could hardly take him back to the Imperial City aware, as he was, of Idari's bias against vampires and certain that he would never be able to find the witch without the Altmer's help. He sighed heavily; hopefully he would be able to persuade Idari to help the vampire with the tempting thought of rescuing her little brother.


	15. Leyawiin

_Author Note: Well all I can say about this chapter is that you guys really let me down last time. 24 visitors and one review - Thanks to Dualkatanas for that. It's nice to have readers and all, but I really get the impression that some people don't understand the effort that it takes to write these chapters, and just how discouraging it is to receive such little feedback. I take it chapter 14 must have been alright though, otherwise you all would have pointed out my glaring errors. That being said, I figured out this week that it's only really the perfect and the awful writers that get reviews, and I'm hovering somewhere between the two at the moment._

_This chapter is not great, but I've written worse. One excuse I'll provide for how bad it is is the lack of motivation I received, but another one is because my sister managed to delete my ENTIRE first draft of this chapter by fiddling with my computer. I was not impressed. It's also the shortest chapter so far, the ending is admittably not very closing and the title needs work. Has anyone noticed that both of my terrible chapters (this one and Permanent Retirement) have been centred around Leyawiin? Odd._

_Anyway, after my ramble I shall say that the next chapter may take a while since I go back to school on Tuesday so my time will be zapped completely. It's an unfortunate truth._

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Chapter 15

The City Watch in Leyawiin was on high alert following the murder of renowned Guard Captain Adamus Phillida in their Coast Guard Station. Phillida's bodyguard had been found dead in the barracks the next day with a poisoned glass of wine and a suicide note telling that the killer had been a woman of an unknown race wearing black armour and a black hood, clearly a member of the Dark Brotherhood.

Caelia Draconis, Captain of the Leyawiin City Watch, who, as a highly-ranked guard, took the majority of the blame for Phillida's death, was still recovering from the embarrassing loss of such a celebrated man when news reached her of her elder brothers death in the tragic accident; being primarily a dutiful daughter and sister, she immediately sent messangers to reach her mother, brother and sister. Only one messanger would reach their target in time, and by the time they would each return with their news, good or bad, Leyawiin would be in mourning again.

Another Guard Captain would be dead.

Idari Mortha blinked against the sunlight. She'd had to abandon her armour and hood outside the city walls to avoid detection by the guards, and was now dressed in a brown shirt and skirt, armed only with a small silver dagger similar to most commoners. Her main aim was to find out valuable information about Caelia Draconis before returning to her armour and weapons and ambushing her elsewhere because of the simple fact that a target like Caelia Draconis was going to prove a harder task than most.

It was a well known fact that Caelia Draconis was the only female Guard Captain in the whole of Cyrodiil, a position that she had not achieved by being any less than ruthless. Her high ranking position was so coveted by the guardsmen under her jurisdiction that she had no choice but to outmatch them in every way, both physically and mentally, and as such she presented no exploitable weaknesses for the budding assassin to take advantage of.

After tailing Caelia for half a day the assassin had formed a pretty accurate schedule for her mark in her mind. Caelia slept in the Three Sisters Lodge before going on duty for several hours, occasionally visiting the barracks to keep her less enthusiastic guards in check. Upon hearing of the death of her elder brother her routine changed only slightly to involve a visit to the Great Chapel of Zenithar after first arranging some cover for her duties.

If Turner had been with her, Idari might have been more relaxed; the majority of the population of Leyawiin were Argonians and Khajiits, and it was not unusual for citizens to wander around town with bows and arrows since this city contained a guildhall of the Fighters Guild and the main headquarters of the Blackwood Company, a group that was fast making their mark in Cyrodiil by taking on the contracts passed up by the Fighters Guild. However swords and shields in Leyawiin were less common; those carrying them were either guards, adventurers planning to spend the night and then leave, or Fighters Guild or Blackwood Company members heading out on a contract.

The Dunmer knew that emotionally tormenting Draconis was never going to work either. The Guard Captain had long since learned to supress her emotions, and had innumerable guards at her disposal if she ever felt threatened.

But the assassin knew one thing that would separate the woman from the rest of her underlings. Her desire to go above and beyond the call of duty.

Trailing the Imperial was a thrilling task that took Idari back to the times she satiated her curiosity during her youth with her younger brother Reron. While there were eight years between Idari and her elder brother, there was slightly less than a year separating her from the younger; they grew up together, alienated from their father by his manic obsession with having a Telvanni heir and annoyed with their mother who believed that the only purpose of a daughter was to marry them off.

Reron Mortha no more wished his sister to marry than she did herself; though she was pretty enough, she was nothing spectacular, but nonetheless the offers flooded in, requiring scrutinization by the family members.

Elvas Mortha agreed to any offer waved beneath his nose, his attention averted from anything except the servitude of House Telvanni; Farusea Mortha accepted anything her husband did, an archetypal good wife and brainwashed by her own chauvanistic father's views when she was a child herself; Sadas Mortha neither knew of nor cared to know of his sister's predicament, expressing in no uncertain terms that his younger siblings' futures were of no concern to him; however Reron Mortha stole through every single reference sent for a reason not to allow his sister to marry the man, and he often found one: a jilted lover, an illegitimate child, a connection with a rival house - something which ultimately led to the death of more than a couple of the hopefuls when Elvas Mortha learnt of it - where Reron did not find a reason he would trail the suitor until they demonstrated some flaw in character, or until they did business with the wrong person, often resulting in him rummaging through their homes for information.

Idari had always been grateful to her brother for that.

On cue, at dawn, Caelia Draconis emerged from the Three Sisters Inn in her slick guard regalia and the constant enthusiasm that she maintained while the other guardsmen waned. Leyawiin had been a quiet spot for crime before the murder of Adamus Phillida, but now that the original shock of the deed had worn off the guardsmen had returned to their weary state, forcing Count Marius Caro to seriously consider requesting High Chancellor Ocato send him some new guards at the earliest opportunity. Unfortunately with the Oblivion Crisis looming over all of their heads, certain measures had had to be taken, and at the moment a few battle-weary guards were simply better than no guards at all.

Idari Mortha ended her reminiscence sharply as she heard the familiar chinking sound of metal on metal that was commonplace to the chainmail armour worn by the guards. She refreshed the chameleon spell that she was currently using to shroud herself from view and checked the weapons automatically for the umpteeth time having retrieved them from the place she had stored them as soon as Caelia had gone off duty. Since everything was in order she began working on a diversion that was to be used for separating the Guard Captain from anybody else who just might be on duty at that time.

Idari remembered the letter that Perennia Draconis had written to her 'couriers' and recalled the passage on Caelia, about her becoming 'boyish and practical'; a sickening reminder that it was not only the Dunmer seemed to believe that being female left one almost useless except to bear children and perform household chores. While part of her could sympathise with Caelia's position, she didn't doubt that the Imperial would not extend her the same courtesy and so she intended to treat this assassination as any other, with her own cold-hearted sense of duty.

Caelia possessed the physical strength to easily rival an Imperial man as well as the grace of a woman. Idari had observed a few of the other guards during her time in Leyawiin and knew that this woman was the only one who had either the speed or the determination to keep up with the Dunmer if she broke into a full sprint, something which featured heavily in her plan.

Timing was the key.

In the art of assassination timing was always the key; move too soon and the plan falls to pieces, move too late and the element of surprise is gone, the advantage lost. All assassins could bank upon the fact that most, if not all targets, never saw it coming, and if they did then they almost inevitably saw it too late. All good assassins could tell how a mark would react before they made their move and be ready to act accordingly. All very good assassins could play out the entire assassination completely in their heads and not stray from the plan in the execution.

And Idari Mortha _was_ a very good assassin.

As the sun crested over the city walls she put her plan into action. She was stood within the walls of the castle awaiting the emergence of Caelia Draconis from the barracks of the City Watch after waking up her slovenly soldiers. When the wooden door opened she cast a dispel charm on herself and shot a fireball spell in Caelia's direction, deliberately avoiding hitting her by a narrow margin in order to reveal herself and get the attention of the Guard Captain.

The Imperial's eyes immediately focused on her attacker with an angry glint as she called for back-up into the barracks. A few tired-eyed guardsmen appeared in the doorway, barely awake and not in the mood to persue someone who obviously had bad enough aim to miss and had therefore not assaulted a guard technically, not registering the leathery armour as that of Phillida's assassin and therefore not bothered by it.

Idari turned tail and ran through the gate into Blackwood as Caelia gave chase, other guards failing to keep up with even a steady jog. The Dunmer followed the line of the city walls as she ran, hoping to give the Guard Captain the impression that she a fool to allow Caelia to remain on her home turf. In one final burst she sprinted at full pelt a little farther, leaving the few remaining stragglers so far behind that by the time they caught up the battle would be over; only Draconis redoubled her efforts to keep up, falling behind only slightly more than she had been before.

The assassin cast another chameleon spell on herself and disappeared from view when she was just out of the line of sight of the Imperial. With any luck the guard would have little energy for the fight following her pursuit of her attacker and the battle would be over quickly. Twinning the fatigue with the fact that the woman she had been chasing had seemingly vanished into thin air, the look of combined confusion and frutration was a little more than blatent across her face.

Caelia cursed her luck for coming up against an athletic assassin who was skilled in the arcane arts when she saw that the hooded stranger had disappeared. She had been trained to deal with assassins and trained to deal with mages, but they had never trained her to deal with a combination of the two skill factors even though it was common knowledge that many, if not all assassins had at least basic knowledge of magic.

This one seemed skilled and Caelia was willing to take no chances with her own life. Her own magicka pool was too depleted for a Detect Life charm, so her intention was to rely on her finely honed instincts as she been told to do with mages back at the academy. She drew her iron sword fluidly and held it like a professional in her right hand, while her shield bearing the Leyawiin emblem was attached smartly to her left with small signs of damage which was not often seen on the shields of guards who seldom knew how to use them. Her chainmail armor seemed to be in perfect condition, though the signs of repair were obvious, and her Leyawiin cuirass seemed to have been torn through and sewn back up on several occasions, though in a quiet town like Leyawiin, this was probably the mere result of dealing with uncooperative drunken locals.

Idari had to admit that she was more than a little impressed with Caelia's attitude and bitter determination. It was something she didn't often see in people and something that she wasn't often impressed by. Her fighting stance was also impressive and surprisingly professional compared to the other guards that dragged themselves through the streets each day.

The assassin drew her katana silently and snuck forward with the obvious advantage that Caelia was fighting blind. She raised her sword to strike down the Guard Captain, a single blow would easily decapitate her and the deed would be done. However something made the Dunmer assassin pause in her movements.

Something didn't seem quite right about allowing the guard to die without a fight.

Caelia Draconis was a well trained and worthy opponent, a refreshing change from the other people she'd been sent to assassinate. The battle had the potential to be legendary, even if nobody would ever know just what occured there.

To be on the safe side Idari drew her shortsword from the scabbard at her belt before dispelling her chameleon enchantment for the second time. Caelia snarled angrily, a sound that reminded the assassin of her battle with Sibylla Draconis in Muck Valley Cavern.

"What is your business here assassin?" the Guard Captain demanded, her stance rigid as she adjusted her sword slightly to cover her weaker left side.

The Dunmer smirked evilly, her usual reaction to the thought of a new assassination. Though she had no shield the second sword in her left hand provided her with an obvious advantage over the guardswoman, her magical abilities gave her the ability to heal herself and to disappear if necessary, and her armour provided her with enough movement capabilities to be far more agile than Caelia as well.

In truth Caelia had not really expected an answer to her question. It was more a rhetorical part of procedure than any form of curiosity on her part. She rocked backwards to spread her weight evenly across her two feet and increase her stability, waiting for the assailant to make the first move.

Idari swung her katana first, a low swing that was deliberately weak enough to allow the Imperial to block it with her wooden shield and slow enough to do no real damage. The plan that was forming in the assassin's quick mind was simple enough: allow the Guard Captain to believe she could win until she let her guard down or became too tired to block the swings.

Draconis blocked a swing from the shortsword with ease, noticing that the assassin's left arm was obviously the weaker of the two despite the training that had been put into it. She retaliated with a slash from her own iron longsword and gained it two dents for her efforts as it met the stronger blades of Idari's two swords loudly, sparks flying as the metal contacted.

The Dunmer sidestepped a poorly timed swing of Caelia's shield and brought her two swords around to slice into the guard's back, her katana making a hole in the chainmail of her lower back while the shortsword glanced off the armour harmlessly, more sparks jumping into the still morning air. Caelia yelled again the her supposed back-up, and the few shouts indicated that a couple had not yet given up on the task of aiding their captain, though they were apparently in no hurry to do so.

The Guard Captain was neither shaken nor injured by the blow, turning smartly to resume her fighting stance before thrusting her sword into the assassin's stomach. Most of the power was lost as the Dunmer took a step away, however the contact with the blade caused a shallow laceration and a thin stream of blood began to seep through the rip in her armour. Idari growled in anger and her eyes flashed red as she thrust her shortsword back into its scabbard and flung a fireball at Caelia to keep her busy.

The fire caught the edge of Caelia's shield and flames began to lick over the painted wood. The guard cast her shield aside as the fire took hold and readjusted the grip on her sword to cover for her weaknesses. Idari's grin was shattered by the sound of the approaching guardsmen drawing closer and she slashed furiously at the Imperial. Caelia parried the blow with a little difficulty and swung backwards to avoid the sweep of the katana that followed, gritting her teeth to bear with the pain as a powerful fireball spell slammed into her chest, knocking the wind out of her and making her stagger backwards in shock.

Idari leapt fowards with a fiery look in her eyes and drew her second sword again in a single fluid action, slicing them across the guard's waist in a scissor-like action that left deep cuts in the Imperial's skin. A sweeping kick threw Caelia's legs from beneath her and she tumbled to the ground with her sword still clasped in her fingers, swinging it feebly towards the assassin despite the crippling pain in her sides. The Dunmer blocked it easily and resolved to put a foot on the end of the guard's sword to prevent her from lifting it again.

Caelia Draconis winced as her attacker stood over her, two swords in hand and an evil look in her obviously Dunmeri eyes.

"Go join your family in the Void, pig," the Dunmer growled as she positioned the tip of her katana directly over the Guard Captain's heart with a terrifying precision.

The victim's eyes narrowed. "I knew that Andy would have never died in such ridiculous circumstances," she said through laboured breaths. "Do your worst assassin. You will be caught and you will be brought to justice for what you have done."

Her attacker sheathed her shortsword again and wrapped the fingers of her left hand dramatically around her hilt of the Akaviri katana, knowing full well that the other guards were in a position to see Caelia die but not in a position to identify the killer. Without a second thought she drove her sword downwards with as much force as she could physically muster until it passed fulling through Draconis' body and into the ground beneath before withdrawing it in a single movement and casting another powerful chameleon spell.

The other guards growled in anguish as the assassin disappeared before their eyes and took perhaps ten paces back to inspect her handiwork. One of the three guards who had arrived was obviously also a Guard Captain judging by the insignia of his cuirass and he was the first to reach his dying comrade who was clinging onto her life with a fierce determination even as her breathing grew shallower. Without a word the Imperial man tore a section of cloth from his cuirass to try and stem the wound, but it did not take a genius to work out that the flow of blood was too heavy to be stopped by a simple cloth; it seeped through his clothes as he knelt next to her and covered the green grass in a red film.

Caelia faked a small smile to him before her eyes turned heavenwards and closed for good. The three guardsmen bowed their heads in respect to the dead and cursed themselves for not being quicker. The Guard Captain moved first, lifting her blood-soaked form from the ground and carrying her respectfully back towards the town that she had come to call home, another guard picking up her sword and following solemnly.

Idari took it upon herself to trail after them and see how the guardsmen of Leyawiin would honour their dead captain, fortifying her magicka reserves so that she could maintain the chameleon spell for a longer period of time.

The townspeople that the guardsmen met at the gates of Leyawiin eyed the limp body of Caelia Draconis with tears in their eyes as the guards continued their march towards the chapel. The guard who was not carrying anything ran ahead and retrieved a white sheet from the barracks to cover the body with until they got permission for the count to send the body back to her mother in their family home near Bruma.

It surprised the assassin how many people appeared in the streets to pay their respects as the news spread of Caelia's death. Within an hour her body - which had been lain on the altar to Zenithar in the Great Chapel and covered over respectfully with the sheet - had been surrounded with tributes from the townsfolk of scrolls of parchment and bouquets of flowers as the priests prepared it for the journey the Bruma. What surprised the assassin most however was the appearance of Count Marius Caro and his xenophobic wife Alessia in the chapel with their own gifts of a silver bowl and a bag of coins for Caelia's mother.

The city of Leyawiin was in mourning again. Another Guard Captain was dead.

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Author Note: You've done the hard bit already and read the thing. How long will it take you to write a review? Perhaps a fraction of that time. I really want to get over forty reviews before I post another chapter, so bear that in mind. Also remember just how long it took

me_ to write this thing compared to how long it takes you to read._

_Random useless piece of Elder Scrolls trivia: There is only one Orc in the Mages Guild spanning across every single TES game - Sharn gra-Muzgob in the Balmora Guild of Mages. She's also essential to the Main Quest of Morrowind._


	16. The Lucky Old Lady

_Author Note: Sorry about the ultimatum in the last chapter. Commentaholic was right, I look stupid for not keeping it now... Nevermind, though the last chapter was crap I got reviews for it and now my confidence is restored. I went back to school while writing this chapter, so excuse it as my life has been pretty stressful, however if you like it don't excuse it - wow, contradiction - because I'd love to hear what you all think. In case you're wondering, I'd always planned to write about Bravil, and before finishing this chapter I finished off the DB questline on my Argonian Shadow, that's why Ungolim makes an inpromptu appearance. Thanks to the people who reviewed the last chapter. It helped a lot._

**PhoenixPhell - ****Thanks for the review. I'm glad you liked the story and your support was encouraging. Idari is just one of those characters that seems to get more complex to write with every chapter, however yes, she does value strength and courage in opponents like Caelia.**

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Chapter 16

Of all the cities in Cyrodiil, there is one that stands out above the rest as being the most slum-like, least hygenic and quite clearly the worst by far. However the city of Bravil is one of the most connected cities in the province lying north of Leyawiin, south of the Imperial City, east of Skingrad, Kvatch and Anvil and west of the Niben.

Mostly Bravil is a town for thieves and the least well-to-do of the province. The houses are built of wood which is green around the edges and stacked precariously atop one another with planks between the blocks for access. A river flows through the centre of the town and separates the people from their castle, joined only by a rickety rope bridge that looks so delapidated that it might fall down at any moment; the drop from the bridge into the river was not far enough to do any real damage, however it would certainly come as quite a shock when it fell down.

The only thing of consequence within the crumbling city walls of Bravil, once one stayed in the city long enough to see past the bog standard guildhalls and chapel, was the statue of the Lucky Old Lady at the town's centre. The Lucky Old Lady was a symbol of luck for the citizens of Bravil as much as anything else, but if anybody looked a little closer at the statue they might have noticed the slightly darker symbolism behind the woman. At her feet lay dead children.

Idari Mortha recognised the statue instantly. She had read the stories of the Night Mother when she had been rising through the ranks of the Morag Tong, and the statue was similar in design to the glowing red door of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary that depicted a woman wielding a dagger.

Darkness crept across the horizon and mercilessly swallowed the last dregs of light into its abyss as Idari stood gazing at the statue. She wore a regular black hood to disguise her identity and had resolved to wear her 'civilian outfit' while within the walls of a city to avoid undue attention. Something about the Lucky Old Lady had fascinated her and grasped her attention without any real effort, holding it in an iron clasp.

The darker the streets became the more interesting the statue became, and Idari watched as the shadows mutated around the shape of the figures until they engulfed it fully. She was sat on the stairwell of a house just in front of the great chapel behind her with her head in her hands and a peculiar glint in her red eyes that was new even for her.

Suddenly her attention was averted from the statue as the area was flooded with torchlight and a Bosmer wearing a green outfit rounded the corner, a bow and quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder expertly and a grim expression on his face.

The Bosmer noticed the intruder upon his privacy instantly and glared at her for a while, the torchlight throwing eerie shadows across his face and his mouth contorting into a frown.

"Do you need something Dunmer?" the Bosmer called to her when she refused to move even a muscle to accommodate for his obvious wish for some alone time with the statue.

For a minute Idari was thoroughly crestfallen and she frowned as she wondered how this simple Wood Elf had managed to figure out which race she was, but then she reached the conclusion that his torch had highlighted perhaps a little of her blue skin and betrayed her. A host of insults passed through her head quickly before she resolved to simply say "I was just admiring this statue," as politely as she could possibly muster. She had to have at least one city in which she could walk around without running into an enemy.

The Bosmer's facial expression lightened slightly. "Our lady is supposed to offer luck to those who offer her a kiss," he said in a matter-of-fact way that sounded oddly like he didn't at all believe what he was saying.

"You don't believe that?" the Dunmer asked without a moment of hesitation and an amused undertone lining her voice.

"I'm not a believer in the gods," the Wood Elf replied flatly.

"And yet you linger next to a statue that supposedly had magical powers in the dead of night?" Idari fought back the urge to add something along the lines of: '_what are you, a pervert?'_ to the end of that sentence, but she decided that leaving it in that state was probably the best option.

The Bosmer began to look uncomfortable and ran the fingers of his left hand through his hair anxiously. "I have elsewhere to be," he said tersely before approaching the statue respectfully and laying a kiss on the woman's cold cheek. "Perhaps our paths shall cross again some day, Dunmer. Until then perhaps an age-old tradition can satiate our mutual curiosity." Then he was gone back in the direction from which he had emerged not 10 minutes beforehand.

Idari sighed and, bypassing the set of stairs behind her, leapt from the landing onto the moss-covered ground next to the famous statue. Instead of kissing the woman's cheek as was the custom, Idari merely inclined her head slightly in respect to her Unholy Matron before spinning about and heading directly for the nearest inn to rent a bed for the night.

Almost as soon as she had gone a Bosmer reappeared at the foot of the statue of the Lucky Old Lady in Bruma, his eyes widened in humble understanding as he pieced together his knowledge with what he had just witnessed. His calling her a Dunmer had been more than an educated guess or a slip of a hood, but rather because he had known who she was the second he had laid eyes on her. They were Brother and Sister after all.

At first light Idari was ready to depart for the Imperial City. She had already delayed her trip far longer than was absolutely necessary by taking the time to stalk Caelia Draconis properly and by taking the time to visit the Lucky Old Lady, but she was sure that Turner had found a way to entertain himself in her absence.

Shadowmere made the short trip even shorter by riding at a near breakneck speed that entire way there without showing any sign of fatigue over the entire span of the journey. When she reached the Chestnut Handy Stables Shadowmere's rider shirked her duty of paying the ostlers for the upkeep of the horse having learnt by now that all of them were simply too scared to approach the demon beast anyway.

The Dunmer found the Temple District with relative ease and, now dressed in her shrouded armour again, strolled languidly into the Temple of the One to search for her 'partner in crime' as it were. The once sacred building seemed entirely deserted save for an Altmer woman in a green and blue dress who was pacing about around the fence that circled the position of the once great Dragonfires. The sound of the wooden door bashing against the stone wall as she pushed it open echoed around the near empty space eerily.

"Are you lost, traveller?" the High Elf asked once the sound had died down to nothingness once more.

Idari grimaced. "I'm looking for an Argonian," she spoke flatly, quickly realising that she was wasting her time.

However she was pleasantly surprised. "An Argonian wearing similar armour to your's passed through here perhaps two days ago. I overheard him speaking to the other priest Jeelius about going to Skingrad and passing on the message to a Dunmeri woman. I have not seen him back here since, however I suggest you speak with Jeelius about this matter instead. He lives here in the Temple District, but you'd have to ask a guard for a specific house..."

The assassin was no longer interested in the ramblings of this Altmer priest. "Did the Argonian give a name?" she asked forcefully, as if it were the most important question ever to be posed.

The priest frowned as if thinking for a moment. "I seem to recall him saying something about someone wishing to remain anonymous in Cyrodiil, and about making a delivery... to..?"

"Matthis Draconis," Idari cut her off mid sentence and was already half way back through the door. "If that Argonian should return then tell him his sister is in the Talos Plaza District waiting for him." Then, without so much as a 'thank you', let alone a 'goodbye', the assassin had vanished from the doorway seemingly into mid air.

xxx

The Talos Plaza District is the richest section of the Imperial City and serves as a home to such notable figures such as Lord Umbacano and Jakben, Earl of Imbel among others. In the centre of the district stood a marble statue of a dragon, symbol of the Avatar of Akatosh, surrounded by common plants such as flax that added colour to the otherwise dull stone city. Unsurprisingly the number of guards in the Talos Plaza District was higher than anywhere else in the city - save, of course, the White Gold Tower itself - and, while this might pose a slight problem to a budding assassin, one as experienced as Idari had already seen a way to use this fact to her advantage.

If Matthias Draconis was anything like his brother Andreas and his sister Sibylla he would likely attack himself if taunted correctly, and then it would be a simple case of slipping back into the shadows to allow the guards to finish him off.

The hardest thing about locating Draconis was the fact that, unlike every other member of the family that the Dunmer had encountered along the way, Matthias was _not_ an Imperial and was, in fact, a Breton. The explanation for this fact was unclear, since none of the other children, or even their mother, had exhibited even the slightest hint of being of a Breton background while Idari and Turner had been systematically killing each one.

He was a guard in the service of Lord Umbacano and therefore on duty for much of the day, obviously at least partially trained with a sword as one hung permanently at his hip with an angry snarl tattooed across his unfriendly face and a mesh of chainmail armour to protect himself.

Idari approached him as the light began to fade from the sky above while dressed in her armour and hood and wielding only her silver shortsword which, having been cleaned in the Niben, shone brightly in the pale moonlight.

"Matthias Draconis?" she called after him as he made his way home wearily after a long day of protecting Lord Umbacano.

Matthias faced her angrily. "What do you want?" he demanded rudely.

"I bring news from your sister," Idari continued unfazed, thinking on her feet about exactly what to say to him.

"I already know Andy's dead," Draconis snapped at her and turned as if to continue walking away.

The Dunmer followed him quickly. "Then have you heard the latest news?" she asked with a fake air of curiosity. She knew that no messangers could have possibly outrun Shadowmere and beaten her here with the news of Caelia's death.

"What are you? Black Horse Courier or something?"

Idari lowered her head to look at the ground. To the passer-by it seemed as though she was merely delivering some upsetting news, to the trained assassin it was obvious that she was minimising the amount of her face that could be viewed from beneath her black hood. "Your sister is dead," she spoke simply, and left it up to Matthias' imagination to elaborate.

Matthias cocked his head slightly and looked at the assassin for a long time. "You mean Caelia?" he said eventually with the hint of uncertainty lacing his coarse voice as he spoke. Idari nodded gravely. "Do you know if my mother has been told?" the Breton continued, concerned.

"More bad news, I'm afraid," the Dunmer said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your mother was found murdered in her home near Bruma, stabbed to death."

Draconis paled more quickly than Idari had thought humanly possible. "Mother? Murdered?" he said as if trying to comprehend something that was completely alien to him. "What about Sibylla?" The assassin did not even have to speak for the message to begin forming itself clearly in Matthias' mind. "Every one of them? It's not a coincidence. Andy was murdered too, and Cae, and Sibby. I'll be next then, the last Draconis alive."

_You're not wrong_, Idari thought coldly, and had to try very hard to prevent herself from saying that out loud as a single guard walked past, checking the area for any mishaps.

The Breton's hand hovered instinctively over his sword hilt and the assassin thought it fit to seize the opportunity while it remained so obviously. She muttered the incantation for a powerful frenzy spell under her breath before tapping Draconis on the arm in a fake supportive gesture in order to stream the magic from her own hand to Matthias.

"I'm sure it's just a coincidence," she pretended to reassure him while continuing to tap his arm and waiting for the spell to take effect.

Matthias' right hand took ahold of his sword almost involuntarily and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You brought me the news about their deaths, how do I know you weren't their killer?" he growled with excessive rage in his voice.

"I am merely a messanger..." Idari replied in fake shock, throwing up her arms defensively and continuing to play along. Her plan appeared to be working.

The Breton had drawn his sword now and began swinging it carelessly, more fueled by the spell effect on him than by true anger. Inwardly Idari grinned, but outwardly she merely dashed into the line of sight of the guards with a supposedly terrified yelp and Matthias hot on her tail, swinging his weapon like a man possessed.

Though, of course, that was _exactly_ what he was.

The guards reacted exactly as their training denoted that they should, drawing their weapons and engaging the sword-wielding Breton without a second thought for who might actually be the victim in this case. The guards who were supposedly trained with a bow and arrow fired innumberable projectiles towards Draconis, of which only about two would ever find their target and perhaps only one of those two would do any real damage as the other glanced harmlessly off of his chainmail armour.

It didn't take long for the guards to take Matthias down, his body lay battered and broken on the roadway in the centre an ever expanding pool of crimson liquid from the numerous wounds. The killing blow had come just as the frenzy spell wore off, a fact that was clearly shown by the expression written across his face as a standard issue sword tore through his ribcage and punctured a lung, leaving the Breton to choke up his own blood and writhe in pain as the truth dawned on him.

Had he had the strength Matthias Draconis might have pointed to the 'innocent' bystander in the growing crowd around his body and declared her to be the killer of him and the rest of his family.

Unfortunately for the last remaining Draconis his body rebelled against him and diverted all of his remaining energy to keeping his laboured breaths repeating themselves from his one intact lung, and all of the money in the world could not have allowed him to merely raise a finger.

He succumber to death quickly, his soul dragged into the Void by Sithis to be eternally damned and the weak movements of his mangled chest ceasing entirely.

Idari took a moment to admire her handiwork. All five Draconises lay dead within such a short space of time without a single one - with the exception of Matthias who seemed to have a significant advantage over the others - realising exactly what was going on.

While it still seemed perhaps a little unfair that a whole family should have to die for the mistakes of a singular individual, Idari had long since learned not the question the morals behind the giving of the contract but rather to focus on the execution of the killing itself.

Her next task, however, was far more difficult than alluding the suspicions of an entire family in order to assassinate them. Finding a single Argonian in the expanse of the Imperial City was going to prove more of a challenge than most.

After two solid hours of searching she caught sight of a familiar face wandering around Green Emperor Way beneath the great shadow of the White Gold Tower with a grave expression on his face.

Idari scowled when she saw him and whistled to attract his attention so loudly that half of the people in the surrounding districts paused a moment to wonder what they had just heard. Turner recognised the whistle nearly instantaneously and swallowed nervously while considering how to break his latest news to the xenophobic Dunmer.

"What happened to the Temple of the One?" she demanded in an angry tone, though she was more angry at the prospect of having searched for two hours than of having been kept in the dark about his whereabouts.

"I had to travel to Skingrad..." Turner replied, his voice quivering slightly, but his general tone was one of confidence.

Idari's eyes widened instantly. "Have you found one yet then?" she asked, unable to contain her anticipation.

The Argonian's gaze averted to the ground. "Not yet," he admitted. "However I know the location of a woman who may be able to make the cure for your brother... Also... umm..."

"That's great progress you've made, pondscum," the Dunmer replied excitedly, ignoring his stammered attempts at another comment completely. "If we go and collect the next contract we can make time to visit this woman..."

"It's not quite that simple, I'm afraid," Turner said before she got any further into making her plans.

Idari paused, using several ounces of her self-control to prevent herself from doing a double take at his comment. "What do you mean?" she asked, her red eyes narrowing considerably.

"We aren't the only people who need to find a cure for vampirism anymore," he told her, fully prepared to jump out of the way in case she hurled something at him in a fit of anger.

A longer pause. "Explain."

"Count Janus Hassildor seeks the cure for his comatose wife and offers a great reward for whoever finds one..."

"That was expected," she admitted with a small sigh. "However I'm pretty sure that you've left something out of your explanation."

Turner swallowed anxiously. "As I said, we aren't the only people who seek a cure for vampirism anymore."

"You've been tricked into helping one of them, haven't you?" Idari snapped at him, her voice dripping with a poisonous cocktail of malice and contempt.

"Tricked?" the Argonian asked in disbelief. "You know, he didn't want this. Who in Oblivion would ever _want_ to be a vampire? Heck, he tried to commit suicide over killing one horse. You can't blame him for this," Turner added with a glint of anger filling his golden eyes. "Or else you don't have your brother's best interests at heart."

The Dunmer looked surprised and took a step backwards instinctively. "You're comparing him... to my brother?"

"Yes," Turner told her assertively. "They're in the same situation here. If you don't hate your brother for being a vampire, then you shouldn't hate anybody else for simply being a vampire. At least speak with him once..."

Fists tightened on reflex. "What was he before he turned?"

"High Elf," Turner said , rolling his eyes. "A mage too. Arcane University resident. Warlock rank. Told him my name was Shoots-An-Arrow, and he seems to believe that, so I suggest you think of a fake name too."

"He can call me Queen Barenziah for all I care," Idari retorted sourly. "Altmer equals stuck-up and mage equals stuck-up. An Altmer _vampire_ mage? I dread to think what he turned out like. Has he fed recently?"

Turner looked almost stunned into silence. "By Sithis, did you listen to what I told you?" he demanded, careful to keep his voice to a reasonable volume so that the other people in Green Emperor Way did not take too much notice of them. "He tried to commit suicide for killing a _horse_. Do you think he would really sink his fangs into a human after that? You'll just have to trust _me_ on this one."

"Trust _you_?" the Dunmer replied in utter shock. "What does meeting a vampire have to do with trusting _you_?"

"Well if you didn't trust me you wouldn't have me finding a cure for your _darling_ brother now, would you?"

Idari stopped, dumbstruck. She couldn't believe that she had allowed her judgment to be clouded so easily by the simple prospect of meeting a vampire. Her red eyes narrowed, but more out of sadness than out of anger, and her fists clenched tighter to the point that she imagined her blue knuckles would be turning white beneath the black leathery armour. Suddenly she exhaled deeply and let her fingers slacken to allow blood to flow through them again, leaving them throbbing uncomfortably. "I will meet with this vampire," she said in a soft voice that was unusual even for someone as thoroughly unstable as her. "However I cannot promise that I will be able to remain civil."

Turner smiled, if only weakly. "I didn't expect you to," he said with the slightest hint of optimism creeping into his tone. "I hope he hasn't done anything stupid while I've been out here..." he added, sounding a little worried.

"Why do you care? You're an assassin for Sithis' sake!"

"Would you care if it was your brother?" the Argonian replied cryptically. "Would you want him to try to stab himself in the heart, or to travel in sunlight just in order to end his own life? Of course you wouldn't, and you're more of an assassin than I am." He allowed Idari to appear to see the truth in his words before saying: "I left him in a family tomb down there. Once he's turned back he should leave us be and return to the Arcane University. For now I guess you should return to Cloud Ruler Temple and I should visit this witch, then we'll be free of this Altmer for you to fulfil your contracts as you see fit... By the way, where is the next dead drop?"

"Skingrad Castle," Idari grinned. "Where I imagine that you just came from..."

Turner rolled his eyes again. "Bloody typical," he muttered as he led the way swiftly to the family crypt that his vampiric associate had magically unlocked in order to hide in.

The Trentius Family Mausoleum was only slightly to the left of the gate leading through into the Temple District and was a chamber with just one room. A mage like Seanturco had had no difficulty in finding a way inside, and to be honest Turner didn't doubt that, given a lockpick or two, Idari would have had no trouble either. He seemed to be lumped with to very skilled breakers-and-enterers.

The Altmeri vampire was huddled in one corner of the mausoleum when the two assassins entered, his knees drawn up tightly into his chest and his black hood pulled down over his face. From a distance it was nearly impossible to tell whether he was actually a vampire or not.

At the back of the mausoleum there was chillingly recent evidence of grave-digging that made all three of them feel more than a little uncomfortable about the fact that they might be disturbed at any moment. Of course, anybody who disturbed two assassins and a vampire was not likely to live long enough to tell the grusome tale.

"This is Seanturco," Turner said, gesturing towards the vaguely Altmer shaped pile of robes in the dark corner.

Idari stared at the vampire for a while and resisted the urge to scoff in disgust. "That's your vampire?" she asked, forcibly reducing the amount of sarcasm in her voice as she went along. "Not very... vampiric, is he?"

The High Elf lifted his head and glared at her, revealing gaunt cheekbones and red eyes beneath the shadow that the black hood was casting across his golden skin. "That's the _idea_, Dunmer," he spoke, putting emphasis on the last word and highlighting his own racial bias for all to see. "I do not intend to remain a... to remain _like this_ for very much longer, and then I have no wish to see you and your adventurer friend again."

"Adventurer?" she replied with a smirk, though really she was more concerned with the word 'friend' than the fact that Turner had managed to pass himself off as an adventurer. Personally she couldn't see the Argonian lasting five minutes in a monster filled dungeon. The glare Turner shot her prompted her to add: "I would say more... mercenary, soldier-of-fortune, along those lines. Adventurer is a little to broad a term for my liking."

Seanturco drew himself up to his full height, leaving him almost a head taller than Idari, and said: "Will you help me then?" The hissing in his voice was almost unnoticable beneath the cultured tone of his usual High Elven tone, however he still struck himself as sounding highly uncivilized.

"Let's get one thing straight here," Idari growled at him, her eyes glowing threateningly and her right hand drifting to the concealed dagger on her right hip. "I am not helping _you_, I am doing this to help _myself_, so you can stop kidding yourself about that for starters. Second of all, you can find your own cure. The Argonian can take you to the witch but you have to gather your own ingredients, and anything formed with our ingredients will be given to Count Hassildor, or given to _me_. Understand?"

While the Altmer was not as easily intimidated by the Dark Elf as Turner was, there was still some considerable threat laiden on her voice as she spoke and the glint in her eyes showed that she wouldn't think twice about carrying them out. His eyes narrowed and he nodded tersely. "I would rather be searching for some alchemical cure anyway. Do you think I want to be associated with mercenaries in my line of work? I am a mage, I do not have requirements for brute force, I dwell on a higher intellectual plain."

"You insult my intelligence, goldenrod?" the Dunmer spat at him, drawing a silver dagger in her gloved right hand and digging it mercilessly into his stomach. "You ever say that again and I'll make you you never find your own innards, let alone any cure for vampirism."

"Fine," Seanturco replied coldly, his eyes hard and determined. "Kill me for all I care. It's an easier way to end this nightmare after all."

"Death is too easy," he received in reply, part of him relieved by the sound of a dagger being sheathed, but the rest of him sorely wished that she would drive her weapon into his heart until he died. "Besides," she added, and the Altmer took note of a certain sadness lingering in her eyes. "You're already dead."


	17. Bloodcrust Cavern

_Chapter 17_

"J'Ghasta," Idari told herself as she read through the piece of paper detailing her next contract. "Bruma. Khajiti nobleman. Skilled with his fists... Shouldn't be too difficult."

Turner looked over her shoulder inquisitively and frowned. "The handwriting's different than last time..." he pointed out. They had left their vampiric companion in a cave outside the city, despite the fact that this was the last city he had visited while alive and therefore was held in high disregard by him. To tell the truth the Altmer had very little choice in the matter.

The Dunmer shrugged and began to fold up the scrap of paper, fishing the bag of gold from the well bucket and dropping it back into the well. "Maybe Lucien was in a rush..."

"Yeah, but the paper's different too..." Turner continued relentlessly, trying to find some kind of fault with this new dead drop contract.

Idari shot him a glare. "Maybe Lucien ran out of stationery! Seriously! These dead drop locations are secret, there's no way they could have possibly been swapped by anyone."

The Argonian wasn't so sure but said nothing further. Idari began rummaging through the bag of coins which, as was common practice among the folk of Cyrodiil, was divided into smaller bags of 100 septims each to make it easier to count things out. She pulled out one of the smaller bags and poured roughly half the contents into a second small bag before tossing it nonchalently to her fellow assassin. "What's this for?" he asked in shock, barely catching the bag before it hit the ground and spilt its contents across the floor.

"500 gold," the Dunmer replied simply, holding up the large bag in her hand slightly. "Five Draconises. 100 gold each, right?" She paused until she thought she saw a vague look of comprehension dawn across Turner's face, then she continued: "You killed Perennia, so that's 100, and I bet I would still be fighting Sibylla Draconis now if you hadn't shot her, so 50-ish. See, it's profitable being good at what you do!"

Had he had eyebrows, Turner would almost certainly have raised one at that point. "Good at killing?" he asked in a hushed, shocked tone. "Since when have I ever been _good_ at killing?"

The corners of the Dunmer's mouth turned up slightly into an almost-smile. "You aren't dead yet, are you?" she asked rhetorically. "And the people you set out to end are dead, right? So perhaps you aren't as bad as you think you are. Plus, there aren't many people who stand up to me the way you do, so something in there's gotta be telling you otherwise. Chin up, this'll all be over and I'll go back to Morrowind, and then we'll be free to do as we please."

"It's alright for you," Turner told her without even a hint of emotion in his voice. "You have a home to go to."

Idari smirked at him before turning on her heels and striding out onto the bridge that led to Skingrad Castle. "A home?" she asked as she walked, her voice going slightly louder as left the earshot of the guards in the castle. "My home consists of a maniac father, a mother who believes women are practically slaves and two technically dead brothers. Home is when you're with the people you love. You'll find one eventually. Maybe you can repopulate the Cheydinhal sanctuary and live there, or maybe you can go to Black Marsh and get married and have kids or something..."

"Why do _you_ put up with me?" the Argonian asked, using the spur of the moment to ask a question that had been bugging him for quite some time.

The Dunmer grinned fully. "You know my past," she replied simply. "If you tell anyone I'll have to kill you." She chuckled at the look of shock spreading over her companion's face. "I can't kill you if I don't know where you are now, can I?" she continued, revelling in his discomfort. "Besides, when I found you you were so simply pathetic that I doubt you would've lasted a day out there on your own. It's nice to have a little lackey to follow me about anyway..."

Turner did a double take. "Lackey?"

Idari shrugged off the question and gazed over the edge of the bridge to inspect the drop to the ground below. Apparently dissatisfied she took off along the bridge towards the southernmost section of the city at a run, the Argonian trailing behind her miserably.

xxx

_Two Silencers?_ The Breton thought in disbelief as he watched the pair depart in a direction that was most likely southwest, though it could have easily been southeast. The Breton had never seen the point in telling the time by the position of the sun; the sun could not help one dwell in shadow.

Chuckling to himself the Breton crumpled the piece of parchment that he now held in his hand which bore a familiar Imperial script across it as plain as day.

The real contract had been for some bandit lord living in the Gold Coast near Anvil, a man who had terrorised many a victim and who was now the subject of Sithis' intentions.

_Sithis will have blood._ The Breton reassured himself as he burnt the paper in his hand to ashes. _From now on Lachance's Silencer is following my orders_.

However the two Silencers seemed to pose some kind of problem. _No matter_, the Breton thought colloquially, stepping from the shadows of Skingrad Castle and determining the direction to the next dead drop location using a map. _They will merely complete my tasks faster, and then the final, inevitable target can be dealt with. I am to kill the Night Mother herself._

xxx

Seanturco was bored. He had been sitting in Bloodcrust Cavern tentatively since dawn, chillingly remembering the experiences he had last endured within this cave that had led to the path that he fate led today.

There had been ten vampires before; their corpses were still present and barely decayed after the short time they had lain in that position. It wasn't even a week beforehand yet.

The Altmer was a specialist in the magic schools of Conjuration and Destruction - battle magic, as he liked to call it - and therefore dealing with the vampires had been simple, even drastically outnumbered as he was. He had dispatched the first nine with relative ease, leaving smoking, mauled corpses in his wake as he made his way through the cave. However he had missed the tenth one by a fraction of a second.

And it had cost him his life.

The tenth vampire, which the mage suspected was the vampire Patriach, was hidden in the shadows of a room that was not directly part of the cavern itself and had sunk his fangs into the Altmer's shoulder before he had even been spotted. He had not survived much longer, but then again neither had his target.

Nevertheless, Seanturco seemed to have finally come to terms with his afterlife. He was not happy to be dead, but he seemed to have grown accustomed to it at long last, little things like his heart not beating and not needing to breathe, while still extremely alien, finally seemed to sit right in his stomach.

And what did he receive as an end to this period of inner turmoil?

Boredom.

At first he had merely entertained himself by firing spells about the cavern, but then, as expected, his magicka stores had begun to grow depleted and he had been forced to stop the pointless past-time. Then he had begun checking through the former vampires' possessions after gingerly stepping over their bodies that lay strewn across the floor, but not before aiming a spiteful kick at the Patriach that had infected him and reduced a mer of his cultured upbringing to stoop to living in a cave just to avoid the sunlight.

He heard them coming before he saw them. Two sets of feet thumping into the earth running from the direction of Skingrad. The closer they got the more he could hear: their breath, their heartbeat, the lulling rhythm their blood made as it coursed through their veins. It was easy for him to resist the urge to bite them, he simply allowed the Altmer part of his brain take over and cause him to think himself above them, even though the Dunmer most likely thought the same thing.

While he had not been to his homeland of the Summerset Isles for many years he could still remember the sights, sounds and smells that accompanied the place like he was still their today. The Argonian didn't seem to know a thing about Black Marsh; his name was an Imperial version of a Hist name, sure, but his accent was heavily Cyrodilic, to the point that Seanturco was led to believe that he had never set foot in his fatherland and had made up the name on the spot. The Dunmer however was not long out of Morrowind judging by her strong accent, and likely a member of one of the Great Houses; the vampire suspected she was raised by a Telvanni, considering her attitude to mages and the Telvanni vendetta against the Mages Guild, but he also assumed that, while having been raised by one, the Great House itself held no place in her heart. She was merely Telvanni by default.

The wooden door creaked open loudly, throwing a small stream of sunlight into the cave and illuminating the long-since charred corpse of a fallen Bloodcrust vampire. Seanturco blinked against the light and remained lingering in the dark shadows next to a box of junk that he had recently opened to find nothing of consequence. The Dunmer entered first. She hadn't even broken a sweat from her long run and was evidently used to far longer sessions of physical exertion. Following her came the Argonian, weary and out of breath, obviously more used to swimming than the running. Then again, that was the case with most of the Argonians Seanturco had ever set eyes on.

"You found what you were looking for?" the Altmer asked them as they both came into his view in the thin line of sunlight. They had been vague with him as to why they had returned to Skingrad, but since it was dawn and there was nowhere else to hide he had had little choice but to be left behind.

The Dunmer nodded with a harsh glare. Seanturco had yet to decide whether she hated him for being an Altmer, being a mage, or being a vampire. He suspected it was all three. "I'm going to Bruma," she announced in a distinctly matter-of-fact way. Apparently this was the first the Argonian had heard of it too, but he didn't seem particularly surprised. "You two can go and find that witch."

Turner - or Shoots-An-Arrow - nodded quickly. "South of Cheydinhal," he said slowly, apparently still a little breathless from his running. "If we can only travel at night it might take us a while to get there, so you're going to need to feed..."

Both the mer in the cave seemed to do a double take at that comment. "Who exactly do you suggest I just haphazardly drain of their life's blood?" Seanturco asked sarcastically with more than a hint of snobbery in his tone.

"Are you going to offer your neck?" Idari pressed him for an answer, a hand hovering at the shortsword on her hip automatically, in case the vampire took her words a little too seriously.

"Of course not!" Turner replied indignantly. "Besides, Count Hassildor said you were free to feed anywhere except Skingrad. He does not want undue attention from vampire hunters with his... condition."

Idari interupted him angrily. "Well then what do you suggest?" she asked violently, her hand now resting on the hilt of her sword.

"If you had let me finish, I would have suggested that he take blood from a bandit or something along the way," the Argonian said, folding his arms in annoyance. "A bandit will likely attack on sight, so it shouldn't be hard to subdue them and take some of their blood. Anyway, I'd heard that vampires could drink from a sleeping victim without waking them."

_And without killing them_, Seanturco thought sadly, his face set like stone. "The vampires in the stories are... practised in their ways. You cannot compare me to... to _them_."

"He'll compare you to whoever he wants to," the Dunmer told him, frustration and anger glinting in her red eyes as the cavern door blew closed to descend them into darkness.

The vampire faced her head on and glared at her. "I could easily reduce you to ash," he said under his breath, fangs slightly visible as they protruded beneath his top lip.

Idari's face hardened and her grip on her sword hilt tightened. "Don't underestimate me, _mage_," she told him threateningly, adding particularly emphasis to the word 'mage'.

Turner resisted the urge to slap his hand to his face in anguish and instead chose to position himself between them, hoping that they would not decide to have a full out battle through him. He was beginning to wish that he'd just never introduced them.

Mages and Telvannis were enemies. Altmer and Dunmer both thought they were the be all and end all of the world. Idari had practically single-handedly declared war on every vampire that had ever lived... or died.

Technically they could not have been worse enemies unless they tried particularly hard to be so, which they seemed to be doing at the moment. Luckily he knew Idari could control herself just about, whereas this fledgling vampire continued to surprise him at every turn. Hopefully he was in control of the vampiric half of himself, even if he blatantly couldn't hope with the Altmer in him.

"Do you make a sport of this?" the Argonian demanded loudly enough to make them both stop their bickering momentarily. "You cannot just fight with each other all the time just because of what you were born. Every person is different, and people change. Just because you're an Altmer, or a Dunmer, or whatever you are, doesn't mean you're perfect. Just because you're Telvanni doesn't mean you have to hate all mages; this isn't Morrowind! Just because he's a vampire, doesn't give you the _right_ to threaten to kill him with every breath in your body, and just because she dislikes vampires doesn't give _you_ the right to provoke her. Trust me, you've both tried to kill me at least once."

There was a long pause, which was broken only by Idari saying: "I knew an Argonian like you once in Sadrith Mora. He was a slave and liked to settle people's disputes for them, and people valued his advice highly dispite his compromising position. You know what happened to him?" Turner shook his head, though he was pretty sure that he already knew the answer. Idari continued: "Someone hired the Morag Tong to take care of him. Quickly. Painlessly. And you know what? Nobody even noticed he was gone."

"Morag Tong?" Seanturco repeated, suddenly breathless as several things slotted into place in his mind all at once. "Assassin? I should have guessed..."

"The Morag Tong is legal and sanctioned by the Council in Vivec," the Dark Elf replied calmly.

"The Dark Brotherhood is not..."

"The Dark Brotherhood and the Morag Tong are enemy organisations."

Though the vampire's red eyes narrowed, it was Turner who spoke first: "So are House Telvanni and the Mages Guild. Sometimes enemies must work together for the greater good."

"You're an assassin too I suppose," the Altmer replied after a sharp intake of thoroughly unnecessary breath. "I should have guessed. The armour as black as night, the lack of fear with a knife to one's throat, the heading into Skingrad for an unspoken reason... It's so simple."

It only took a few moments for the vampire to detect a rise in the Argonian's heartrate as it dawned upon him that he had been discovered, however the Dunmer remained calm both outwardly and inwardly to an almost shocking extent. Seanturco was sure that, if his own heart were still beating, even his heartrate would have increased by now, but hers maintained a consistant rhythm without fluctuation. "What choice do you have?" she asked him, and immediately it began to dawn on the vampire exactly why she didn't seem bothered. "You're a vampire. You approach a guard in the dark they'll kill you, you approach them during the day and they'll know you've been feeding recently and kill you. You turn back to living and approach a guard, tell them that a Dunmer you don't even know the name of is an assassin? You give them a description and they realise who I am? No guard in their right mind is going to lock me up. I was cleared of all crimes by Uriel Septim himself."

"The Hero of Kvatch," the High Elf spoke flatly, no emotion present in his words or in his hooded face. "Perhaps I have been unfair. Assassin or no, you saved hundreds of people at Kvatch. There are reports all over the place of gates to Oblivion itself opening up in the wake of the Sack of Kvatch. Even if I reported you to the guards, it would be rather... unprogressive for Tamriel. You have my silence, ashlander, please do nothing further to endanger this trust."

Idari shrugged off his comment. "As I said before, I'm going to Bruma. Should you find a cure feel free to visit Bruma as well, though I cannot promise that I will still be there. You go back to the Arcane University Altmer, and continue with your life as if nothing was ever wrong. Things will be better that way. If you ever do decide to develop a conscience and tell the guards, rest assured that you will be dead before you get there. Pondscum, speak with Martin when you get up there; he should know where I am. Hopefully for the last time I take my leave." With that said she left abruptly, the door blowing in the wind and allowing streaks of light to pour through for a long time afterwards.

Turner didn't know what to say really, and the silence that endured was eerie beyond comparison. Though Idari had assured her own safety she had done nothing to help her companion in the slightest, leaving him unprotected and vulnerable to being thrown in jail to rot, or even vulnerable to being executed on the charge of murder.

"Oil and water," he heard Seanturco mumble from the opposite side of the cave to which he had walked after Idari's departure some time later. It was roughly dusk judging by the light outside but the level of sunlight was still slightly risky to a vampire such as him and neither of them were prepared to take any chances.

Turner understood the analogy immediately, and was certain that it was exactly the right way to describe the relationship between the Altmer and the Dunmer that he had ended up lumbering himself with. "Poison and potion," he whispered to himself as he sat with his head in his hands on a rock as far away from a vampiric corpse as he could manage.

Evidently vampire's had better hearing than the Argonian had expected, since he received a reply soon afterwards. "I've not heard that analogy before..."

"There's good in everyone," Turner explained solemnly. "And there's evil too. Just like potions and poisons. Even the best potion of all can have negative side effects, and even the deadliest poison can perhaps numb the pain a little while killing you. You and her are like that. You both see the poisonous part, and you play on that, and you make it worse, like mixing a Nightshade Leaf and a Wisp Stalk Cap, but somewhere inside you're both pretty similar. You're both messed up, sure, and its not the fault of either of you. There's good in a Nightshade Leaf, and there's good in a Wisp Stalk Cap, you just have to know how to use the goodness to make the right potion..."

"You know alchemy?" the Altmer responded, unable to prevent a little surprise creeping into his voice.

"Not much. It might surprise you to know that I was a member of the Mages Guild for approximately a week before I got kicked out for being useless. Alchemy is the school of magic least likely to... blow people up... so they tried to teach me a bit. I made my tutor sleep for three days solid with a damage fatigue potion... I told her not to drink it, but a couple of jokers poured some into her food."

"So you were expelled from the Mages Guild... for uselessness?" Seanturco asked, fighting back to urge to smirk at the prospect, and a secondary urge to bite his lip to prevent himself from smirking. Biting his lips with fangs was not going to be a pleasant experience.

"Not expelled per se... Just... asked to leave? Besides, I didn't like the Chapter Head one bit. She was _seriously_ annoying," Turner added with a chuckle. He could not see the vampire's face through the gloom, but he was entirely sure that he could be seen perfectly. It was just another interesting perk to being undead.

"Bruma Chapter?" the High Elf asked instantaneously, breaking into a full smirk this time. "Jeanne Frasoric. I had to receive a recommendation from her to my admission into the Arcane University. She made me find an invisible Khajiit who was simply on the floor below her. Anybody who could cast Detect Life and Dispel could have found him in minutes."

The Argonian nodded in agreement. "J'skar and Volanaro. They liked me because most of the time my spells backfired against Jeanne, or the section of ceiling above Jeanne's head, or the likes. I got the impression that Jeanne knew about as much magic as I did..."

"Probably. That woman was incompetant in the arcane arts and how she came to be Chapter Head is a complete mystery to me. Apparently she has friends on the Council..." There was a pause in which neither of them spoke, the Argonian lost in memories of his pitiful existance and the Altmer considering blasting the corpse of the vampire that had infected him with a shock spell while tapping his foot on the rocky floor of the cavern.

Knowing Shadowmere Turner expected Idari might well be half way to Bruma by now.

"Do you suppose it's dark enough?" Seanturco asked after another extended period of silence. Narrow strips of light no longer appeared to be emanating from the door, but that was not necessarily a sign that night had fallen, it might just mean that the sun had gone behind a cloud

The Argonian stood wearily and walked to the door to check the nigth sky. He had taken a single step beyond the door when he stopped, frozen at the sight of something that the vampire inside the cavern could not make out from his current position. He tried shouting to get the assassin's attention but to no avail, so in the end he decided to bite the bullet and step outside if only for a few moments.

He pushed open the wooden door and stooped to pass through it. The sky above was pitch black and streaked with unusual red mist, as if the sky itself had burst forth into flames. Seanturco could hear the faint screams and cries for help from within Skingrad's walls, and yet apparently the only thing amiss was the colour of the sky, which was not as thoroughly unusual as people made it out to be. The sky often turned red at about dusk.

If it were dusk however, the vampire's skin would be lightly smoking away to itself as he stood in the sunshine, gradually burning away to a crisp on its own accord. Perhaps the sky could not be described by something quite so trivial.

Turner remained rooted to the spot, his eyes wide and blinking rapidly as if he could not believe what he was seeing... or as if he had seen something that he had never expected to see again. The Altmer followed his line of sight to just the other side of Skingrad where something appeared to be on fire.

"What in the name of Tiber Septim is that?" he asked anxiously, aware that it might well be time to begin panicking given the situation.

The Argonian continued to blink rhythmically, as though a blink could change the world around him. "Oblivion," he whispered hoarsely, his voice distanced to the point that it could barely be heard by the _vampire_ standing next to him.

"What?" Seanturco demanded, distrusting what his ears had told him he had just heard.

"That!" Turner replied with more urgency, his eyes still locked at the burning pillar behind the walls of the city. He raised a hand and, trembling, extended a finger to point at it. "It's a gate to Oblivion. The daedra will come and sack Skingrad as they did with Kvatch. We can't allow that. We're going to have to close it, or else history will remember us as the most cowardly failures to ever set foot on Nirn."

"Do you even know _how _to close it?" the vampire asked, squinting at the burning gate in a feeble attempt to get a better view of it.

The Argonian tore his eyes away from the red sky and instead looked hard into a pair of red, undead eyes. "The Hero of Kvatch knows," he said determinedly, his golden eyes dancing with the red streaks of light that came from the sky.

"But she's gone."

"She'll be back," Turner replied before running in the direction of the gate in much the same way as Idari tended to do. She always seemed to be cutting conversations short by running off at the most inopportune moments.

The closer they drew to the massive gate the more it struck them in all its devastating power. It was on a small slope to the north of the city and the daedra were already beginning to pour out in groups, meeting slight resistance from the city guards but nothing that would hold them back.

The gate itself was huge, stretching high into the reddened sky was a wall of fire surrounded on either side by thick pillars of black obsidian. It was enough to strike terror into even the toughest of souls, and that was before the limitless daedra pouring from it were taken into account.

The Argonian had drawn his bow and killed two scamps even before he stopped running to find a better vantage point, a grim look of determination on his face as he nocked another arrow and took aim on a clannfear that was charging into the crowd of guards. A daedroth fell to a bolt of electricity that leapt from the hands of the vampiric mage and engulfed its body instantly, convulsing as its soul returned to Oblivion, the very place from which it had just emerged.

"What now?" the mage growled at the assassin while shooting another shock spell in the direction of a flame atronach. "We can't flipping wait for her to get back from Bruma!"

"She would go in there!" Turner yelled back at him, firing arrows fruitlessly at a thick skinned daedroth until Seanturco hit it with a powerful frost spell to end its miserable existence. He seemed to be using any spell except fire, understandably. Firstly because the daedra were pouring from a realm full of fire, but secondly because vampires are not only weakened by the sun, but also by fire.

"What?" the vampire shouted over the roaring din of the Oblivion gate, sidestepping a fireball shot from a flame atronach and sending a frost spell spiraling back at it. He felt the familiar tug of his magicka growing depleted from overuse but resisted the urge to curse loudly and thus draw attention to that fact. "You're mental! We can't go in there! Vampires are susceptible to fire, and all you've got is a bow and a dagger! You don't even know how to close the thing!"

"You propose we let Skingrad burn? Didn't you read what happened in Kvatch? Go to the Count, ask for reinforcements. If I don't come back then... well, doesn't really matter if I don't come back, does it?"

The Argonian took a final glance around at what could very well be his final image of Nirn, the burning vegetation and rampant daedra providing him with all the motivation he needed to throw himself into the fray.

"Oi!" Seanturco yelled at him one final time before he disappeared through the fiery gate. Turner whipped around instinctively, despite the fact that being so close to the gate now put him at a high risk from being attacked. He felt the strange tinge of magicka enveloping him and glanced down to see wisps of light around his body and an ultra light sword hanging from a scabbard at his waist. "Shield spell and bound sword!" he explained vaguely.

But his last words had fallen on deaf ears, since the Argonian was already gone.

* * *

_Author Note: An author note at the end instead of the beginning? I know, it's weird beyond reason, but I didn't want to include too many spoilers to the upcoming chapter. OK, I know it's a little tacky and a little cliched and all, but I thought it was my turn - since everyone else... well, the people I read - have already tried their hands at action. My description of the gate is terrible, I know. For a better version go read Blood and Steel by Dualkatanas. (Note that I did NOT plagerise this. I know that it might look like it, since mine came second, but I decided to include this Oblivion gate scene a couple of chapters ago). I know Turner's being a little OOC - out of character for those of you who don't speak fluent ff . net - but I couldn't resist him having his moment of glory. Anyway, enough from me. I hope you enjoyed reading it, though nitpicking is great if you can._

_Also drop me a review if you want me to review you, since I've noticed my name appearing on someone else's review on a different story saying I haven't reviewed it, and to be honest you're definitely speaking to the wrong people about that. I check out the pages and stories of all my reviewers. That's how I end up with mutual reviewing circles with people. How else do you think I got reviewers? XD_

_It's almost midnight here in England, and I haven't double-checked this chapter for spelling and grammar, so all help is useful. Merci beaucoup, gracias mucho, thanks a bunch_

_~ARTY~_

_**Disclaimer... As it were: Hand on heart I can safely say that this was NOT plagerism of Blood and Steel. I understand the implications that mine looks similar, but as you can see, I've actually sent my most pathetic character EVERRR into Oblivion. The shield spell and sword were NECESSARY, because he can't always shoot daedra with an arrow, and he's not going to meet a dremora with a dagger. After he's killed one he's going to give up on his summoned one and steal the daedric one, so there. Seanturco might seem to be a little like Gorgoth gro-Kharz from Blood and Steel, but I'd be here all day telling you why he's not. The main reason is that he's a mage and Gorgoth's a spellsword, meaning that he has NO choice but to fling spells about, whereas Gorgoth can pretty much use any weapon to his disposal. Want more reasons? Ask me and I'll stream them all at you, since there are so many it's ridiculous. I actually looked up the description of an Oblivion gate in Blood and Steel to make sure I DIDN'T write the same thing, not the other way around. I hope this clears some things up for you.**_


	18. Skingrad

_Chapter 18_

Idari Mortha had almost reached Chorrol when the air around her grew still and the sky above her turned a strange tint. Cursing under her breath, she commanded Shadowmere to stop and turned to see exactly what she had been expecting.

The red shade of the sky was altogether too familiar, the stillness of the air was inhuman but something she had experienced before, the pillar of flame licking into the sky in the distance was even growing saming by now as well.

Oblivion gate.

So far she had shut nine of them - excluding the very first one that had been outside Kvatch - in varying locations in between Kvatch and Bruma and each one had exhibited the same revealing features as this one. The only difference with this one was _where_ it had occured: behind her, outside a city, back where Turner was, the list was verging on innumerable.

For a moment she considered leaving it. Perhaps the guards in Skingrad would be fine, perhaps some heroic soul would dash into the gate and close it. But only she knew how. It was a ridiculous dilemma to find oneself in.

It was the memories of the Sack of Kvatch that did it.

"Oh for the love of Sithis," she growled, spurring Shadowmere to ride back in the direction that they had just come from. _Turner had better not bloody decide to go in there._

xxx

Janus Hassildor, Count of Skingrad, had made it his utmost priority to rid vampires from the streets of his city for obvious reasons: vampires brought with them vampire hunters, and vampire hunters sniffing around would surely discover the count's own true nature. However with the Oblivion gate causing widespread panic as the helpless citizens ran screaming and the guards attempting the sure up the cities fortifications hardly anybody noticed the vampire slipping through the streets towards the castle.

The Altmer had more important things on his mind than to be shielding himself from view. Maintaining the shield spell and the bound sword he'd cast on the Argonian was his foremost concern, and doing so was proving difficult as it provided a constant drain on his magicka levels and thus rendered him almost useless in the battle.

Upon reaching the castle he was met with several guards scrambling to protect their count from the daedra, despite the fact that the gate was on the opposite side of the city. The red sky and the burning surroundings were obviously enough to make the men lose hold of their wits with fear. They were so occupied, in fact, that barely a single one of them registered the sight of a hooded mer strolling into the castle hall.

Then again, they were on the lookout for daedra, not mer.

Though he knew time was of the essence the High Elf paused in the Castle Hall to consider his next action. Though people had not noticed him running through the city or sneaking into the castle it was hardly the place of a vampire to go demanding reinforcements for an Argonian who had thrown himself to near certain death. Besides, the city guard appeared to be pretty thinly spread as it was in trying to protect their city, let alone a suicidal Argonian.

Seanturco felt his magicka levels grow lower and swore loudly, drawing undue attention to himself for the first time since he had entered the room; whereas before only two people had noticed him the now felt an additional four sets of eyes look onto his hooded face.

"Oh crap," was the last thing he managed to utter before the guards drew their swords and began running towards him with an look of grim determination.

All he could hope for was that he might use his vampiric abilities to keep himself out of harm's way until he could speak with the count.

xxx

Mehrunes Dagon's sphere of Oblivion was among the lowest of all of the plains belonging to the Daedric Lords. Several plains of Oblivion were perfectly hospitable, some even representing Nirn itself and others bursting with beauty that could make one go blind by staying there too long.

Mehrunes Dagon was not a fan of beauty.

His realm of Oblivion was dead and burning, the rocks were dried out and cracked, bubbling pools of lava amassed themselves in the lowest lying areas and barely any form of vegetation grew.

Turner gasped when he saw it first. Passing through a wall of fire had not been pleasant but had been tolerable at best, however the environment he now found himself in was so sparse and alien that he immediately began to regret his spur of the moment decision to play the hero.

It was evident just by looking that the daedra that were going through the gate into Nirn had gone through from a different location than this. A scattering a daedra were littered around the gate - the Argonian's primary concern being the two hulking clannfear standing near the lava pit in the centre of his vision, but hardly the numbers that he had seen to be pouring out into Skingrad, and they were hardly just going to manifest from nothingness.

The daedra seemed instantly alerted to his presence and turned in unison to face him, one scamp becoming a pin cushion before it had even completed this simple action, an arrow passing through the side of its head and spraying blood across the parched ground which seemed to absorb it greedily.

The two clannfear charged at the Argonian relentlessly as he fired arrows at them as quickly as he could manage, striking one in the front leg and missing the other completely as the arrow glanced off its toughened skin. The one that had been struck with the arrow roared with pain but only redoubled its efforts to destroy its attacker. Turner knew that the shield spell that the Altmer had placed over him was not going to withstand the collision of two massive clannfear and slung his bow over his shoulder, realising that it was not going to be of much use in this barren wasteland.

Drawing the summoned sword he tried to mimic the stance he had seen Idari adopt when she was fighting, something she did automatically from experience, but something he himself had never tried in his life.

"I did not come all the way to Oblivion just to die at the front gate!" he yelled at himself as he wrapped his left hand around the hilt of the sword just below his right.

The wounded one reached him first, blood trickling down its injured leg, but the flow stemmed by the arrow that was still lodged in the muscle of its thigh. Turner swung the sword wildly and caught the daedra just below its right eye, drawing blood but nothing particularly crippling and definitely not fatal. With the second clannfear drawing nearer by the second the Argonian thrust his sword forward into the wounded daedra's face, making contract with its face and wincing at the scream of pain that followed.

Summoning all his strength Turner pushed the sword deeper into the creature's face, surprised by how easily the blade sliced through the clannfear's thick skin, then he drew it back out and in a singular movement brought the edge of his sword down on the back of the clannfear's neck, severing its spinal cord and causing it to crumple into a dead heap at his feet.

Pumping adrenaline allowed him to dispatch the second clannfear with relatively little thought, his blade passing through the armoured skin and into the soft brain tissue beneath, killing it almost instantly

Breaking into a run Turner reached the bottom of the slope away from the gate quickly and glanced about in confusion. From the top he could not see the tower before him through the thick smoky air, but from the base, beneath the plumes of sulphur and carbon, he could see a great obsidian tower clearly from the other side of a great pool of lava. For a moment he could see no way around the blatant deathtrap, but on second glance he caught sight of a path leading to a smaller tower off to his right and in a split second decision he headed off to that.

xxx

Shadowmere was fast; the fastest horse in all of Tamriel, but Idari's patience was even wearing thin by the time it took the demonic creature to return to Skingrad once more. Using an Intervention spell would have been faster, but they really only worked for Tribunal Temples and took far too much magicka considering.

Idari was not willing to end up placing herself in the middle of Morrowind just to get to Skingrad faster.

The sight was familiar. Vegetation was burning for practically the entire final mile of her journey and the gate itself, though smaller than the gate she had first entered in Kvatch, was just as ominous as all the others had been: a wall of fire.

There were a few straggling guards outside the city walls still attempting to hold back the daedra, but for every one they killed another two would emerge from the gate and they were gradually being overwhelmed to the extent that the Guard Captains of Skingrad had called for a full retreat by all the men still fighting.

Idari had seen it before. _Fools_, she thought, _you'll never keep your city that way._

Something that disturbed her more than most was the fact that she could not see Turner or Seanturco everywhere. She knew Turner well enough by now to know that he would not have run away from the Oblivion gate if it happened to open up in his vicinity, but the lack of bodies of Altmer and Argonians made a thought cross her mind that she had never predicted would happen.

_He's gone in there_.

The vampire would not have, and could not have, entered the gate. Vampires are weakened by fire, and anybody who knew anything about the daedra knew that many plains of Oblivion consisted of fire and turmoil.

Turner had gone in alone.

_He's dead then_, she thought, and she was pretty certain that she was right. He had no magic, no sword, no shield, and his pathetic bow and arrow were hardly going to pierce the skin of creatures who lived in a fiery wasteland.

She leapt from Shadowmere's back and ran full pelt into the battle, taking out a flame atronach before it even saw her, sword slicing through its middle and severing its body in half easily. A clannfear runt felt the sharp end of her sword too as she hacked through its thick skin mercilessly, spilling its innards across the ground.

Even while fighting she took notice of her surroundings, recognising the arrows sticking from the bodies of two dead scamps as those from her obviously dead ex-companion and the charred corpse of a daedroth that had been struck by magic before its life ended.

Idari swore violently. If Turner had gone in there alone then that stupid good-for-nothing mage had abandoned him and run away. She couldn't blame him for his survival instincts, it was just nature, but the coward could have at least had some form of battle decency and have offered to help the Skingrad guardsmen in their time of need.

_Altmer, they're all the same. Stuck-up, pompous losers with no sense of dignity and no courage to speak of._

Of course, there was no way on Nirn that Idari could have found out how impossibly wrong she was.

xxx

Turner's heartrate was sky high by the time he reached the smaller black tower and kicked the door open. He had killed two more on his journey, pushing a stunted scamp into the boiling lava beneath, blocking its agonised screams out of his tortured conscience as he had turned to face a daedroth head on, sword slicing through the thinner skin of its stomach and spewing blood everywhere as it fell, only to have the blade driven into its side by an Argonian who was so high on adrenaline that he couldn't have recalled his own actions five minutes later if he wanted to.

And of course he didn't.

He was an assassin, not a killer, and each death tore at his mind as he registered it. Mentally he might have been able to keep count of every death he had caused if he thought about it, but still he spurred himself on.

"It's them or me," he told himself with each slash and stab of the summoned sword that he had a horrible feeling was not going to be maintained for much longer. "Either I kill them or they kill everyone in Skingrad." And the logical side of his brain saw that there were simply no two ways about it.

The room was circular and empty as soon as the rogue scamp inside had been dispatched, save for several spikes jutting from the floor and a lever on the wall. Turner decided to once more throw caution to the wind and pulled the lever down.

The accompanying sound of a cacophany of cogs groaning into action was enough to make one cover their ears and stagger backwards in shock, and Turner did just that, placing a foot on a platform that he had not previously noticed just as it began to ascend the tower. He was almost thrown off as it jerked into life, however he managed to regain his balance by taking hold of the side of one of the spikes that made up the centre of the platform and clinging on for dear life.

The climb was agonisingly slow and the noise barely subsided during the entire trip leaving the Argonian dazed and battle-weary as the adrenalin in this bloodstream finally lost its effectiveness. The daedra at the top of the lift had more than enough time to prepare.

Looking up he saw the people who had tried to serve the daedra in the past: corpses, burnt and mutilated and strung from the ceiling like trophies to some kind of sick game. It was more motivation to continue through this hellish place for the singular Argonian who's every move struck deeper into the unknown world of Mehrunes Dagon.

At the top of the lift a clannfear was waiting for him on a narrow ledge that wound its way up the inside of the tower until it reached the very top platform. The clannfear leapt onto the lift before it had even stopped and Turner yelped in fear now that the adrenaline was no longer holding back his unwanted emotions. He sidestepped the charge of the daedra clumsily, almost slipping backwards over the edge of the platform and to certain death on the spikes below.

Fear was certainly an excellent motivator.

In a strangled cry Turner leapt from the rickety platform onto the ledge just as it began to return to its place on the ground floor again, coughing out the words to the only spell he had ever managed to perfect: invisibility. The clannfear looked about in surprise to see that its prey had disappeared. The surprise however did not last long as an arrow found its way into the nape of the daedra's neck, an area where the skin seemed to be strangely thin for such a resilient beast. It's body came to rest unceremoniously between two of the spikes on the hard floor below.

The Argonian's invisibility had dissipated as soon as he had loosed an arrow at the clannfear below and now he felt surprisingly vulnerable considering how far he had come. His magicka level was too depleted by his last spell to cast another one for the time being and so he pressed on up the ramp resiliantly.

xxx

Seanturco's magicka supply was near to failing. He could feel it with every pace he took to put some distance between himself and the swords of the irate guards who seemed to view him as some kind of threat on their count. Their swords were, admittably, made of iron and would therefore do next to no permanent damage, however the Altmer had no desire to find out whether vampire's could feel the pain of being stabbed or not.

His sustained spell and his running were draining his stamina levels exponentially, to the point where he assumed he might just fall over and die at any moment. Unfortunately the fate of Skingrad required him not to for as long as was physically possible.

He dashed up the stairs in the County Hall quickly, his long Altmeri legs and his vampiric speed putting a fair distance between himself and the Imperial guards. Finding the Count would buy him some time but would not allow him to stop using the spell, and yet his magicka and stamina would continue to drain each other in a vicious circle until one or other of them failed spectacularly.

While the fate of Nirn did not rely souly on the magical abilities of one lone vampiric High Elf mage the fate of one young Argonian did.

And that was reason enough.

xxx

Idari Mortha dashed through the gate into the plains of Oblivion once again. Like all the other gates, it appeared to be similar to the others but was in fact an entirely separate place. Idari wondered if the Daedric Lords did this just to annoy her.

Immediately on the other side of the gate she saw the corpses of several daedra littering the ground and it was almost enough to warrant a smirk from her. Something confused her about the corpses though, since, while two were stuck through with Turner's arrows the rest had been cut with some form of sword, and she knew that the Argonian didn't have a sword to his name.

The cuts were clean, and she knew from experience that daedric skin was notoriously hard to cut with anything other than daedric steel itself, which was only available when summoned from the plains of Oblivion itself by the budding mage, something which Turner was not. She had seen him use magic in the past and knew that no amount of training would ever allow him to summon himself a daedric steel sword, so either he had help or he was not alone in this wasteland. She suspected the latter.

Unfortunately for the budding hero, the wastelands of Oblivion change and alter themselves to their host lord's every wish, thus with every death more daedra came into existence to the extent that the mortals could not hope to win without first shutting the creatures back where they belonged. Idari's first thought was to run through the barren landscape and retrieve the Sigil stone from the tower to shut the gate, however she knew that if Turner were also in the gate and miraculously alive then he would be trapped on this plain for all eternity if she did that, and she didn't suspect Dagon would be a very nice host.

She followed the trail of bodies quickly, ignoring the ragged plants that tried to strike her with their razor sharp leaves and the daedra that tried - and failed - to attack her, until she reached a smaller tower. She had seen these before; they were the daedric equivalent of a gatehouse, the tall and guarded tower in which the controls for the gates were housed, however in this plain the bridge was all but collapsed and it seemed pointless to venture all the way to the top of the tower in order to pull and lever that would have no effect whatsoever.

Pushing open the door carefully she spotted more carnage: daedric bodies lying in pools of corrosive blood and riddled with sword marks or arrows. Turner would have never had the skill with a blade to cause this level of devastation, so he was obviously not alone here.

Or so she thought.

xxx

Turner leapt in fright at the sound of the lift downstairs suddenly springing into life loudly and almost lost his footing on the sharp incline of the stone ramp he was running up. He presumed that one of the daedra was seeking him out after being killed by him the first time and in his mind he ran through all of the deaths he had caused so far.

He could remember every one, their faces etched into the back of his memory for alone of eternity both past and present: the beggar in Bruma, Valen Dreth, Roderick, Perennia Draconis. Most of them had seemed to deserve it, Dreth was in prison, Roderick was a mercenary warlord, however others were innocent and those were the ones that had seemingly hurt the most. Somehow slaughtering so many blood-thirsty daedra in quick succession had brought on a bout of remorse.

Turner hoped it would end soon.

xxx

Count Janus Hassildor had been with his comatose wife Rona when he had been rudely interupted as an Altmer burst into his private chambers uninvited. Needless to say, the Count was not impressed with the predicament.

The Count had known of the Oblivion gate almost as soon as it had opened and had done what he always did in times of great peril: sought the advice of his wife in the hope that maybe one day an event would be so important to her that she would wake up in order to serve her city.

So far not even the endangerment of so many lives in her beloved town of Skingrad had done so.

"You must send troops to the gate!" the Altmer had pleaded after having revealed himself to be the vampire from a few days earlier and a pawn of the Mages Guild.

Janus Hassildor had scoffed in reply. "You tell me how to protect my own city?" he had asked indignantly. He was an excellent count, despite his unusual condition, and was considered to be among the best in all of Cyrodiil, however he was particularly stubborn about being told how to govern his own area.

"There are too many men protecting the castle," Seanturco had continued to insist maniacally, beads of sweat breaking out across his face as he appeared to be concentrating on something. "You have to send more to protect the town and to combat the daedra at the gate."

"I will not endanger the lives of my men in the harebrained scheme of a mage," Hassildor had replied with an air of authority that said explicitly that he was _going_ to have the last word on the subject. The Altmer had to admire his dedication to his men.

The mage's mind raced as his hands grew clammy with the effort of maintaining the spell. He knew that he could only maintain it for perhaps a minute more now but was determined to see the duration of the spell out and make every second count. "What if I were to tell you that the Hero of Kvatch would close the gate for you?"

The count's face froze and he stole a glance at his wife lying peaceful on the bed in the opposite half of the room. "I will send twenty men to the gate," he said through the silence. "But if the gate is not closed within an hour then I will order them all the withdraw. Is that understood?"

These terms were more than he had expected to receive, however Seanturco had no real choice but to agree to the pitiful settlement.

_Don't panic_, he thought to himself solemnly. _You now have an hour to find the Hero of Kvatch and persuade her to close the gate..._

xxx

The dremora was a Kynval, but Turner wasn't to know that. He was more concerned with the dremora longsword streaking through the air towards his head. He ducked under the first swing by a fraction of an inch and caught the second swing with his own daedric blade, sparks flying as the metal collided.

His opponent had to unfair advantage of beign equipped with a full set of Kynval armour, minus the helm, a sword that wasn't liable to disappear at an awkward opportunity and the training with it to match. The Argonian was thoroughly weak by comparison.

Following the blocked swing the dremora merely sliced at the mortal again with rising frustration, the snarl on its red-skinned face deepening; again it was met awkwardly and Turner took an automatic step backwards to increase the distance between himself and the blade, instantly forgetting about the sound of the lift he had heard earlier. The fourth slash was countered mere inches from the Argonian's face, his lack of experience with a blade showing more than ever.

The dremora whirled its sword through the air again with a hissing sound and attacked with full force. As the two swords struck one another again the summoned sword dissipated leaving the Argonian unarmed save for a bow and an iron dagger. Turner's eyes widened in utter terror and he only just managed to jump out of the way of another slash as the sword began to rain down on him now in a flourish of steel, the dremora sensing his victory was near.

A blow caught him on the left arm and drew a little blood, the young assassin crying out in pain at his first experience of a battle wound. He expected it would be his last too, the terrifying drop to the floor was only a few feet away from the area he was now backing into, and the dremora's sword seemed to be blocking all other possible escape routes that didn't involve flying or jumping extraordinarily high.

Suddenly from nowhere he heard a familiar voice from behind him shouting. _That's it_, he thought sadly, _I must be dead. Nobody would find me here_.

The dremora seemed momentarily distracted by the shouting and turned to face the new opponent behind him. She was some kind of mer, an Akaviri katana held firmly in her right hand and a vastly superior fighting stance to the other mortal who had dared to cross the Kynval's path.

"Pondscum, duck!" she yelled at the other mortal for the second time, and the Argonian seemed to react in a dazed fashion just as a ball of electricity flew over his head and made contact with the dremora's breastplate.

Dagon had designed his dremora minions to have resistance to magic among other things, however it was obviously a flaw in the Daedric Lord's great plan when he did not make them able to resist the shock of being slammed in the chest by a powerful ball of energy. The Kynval staggered backwards at the force of the spell, leaving room for the cowering Argonian to move and throwing himself off guard for a moment.

The mer seized the chance eagerly and leapt into battle with a cry of anger, hacking into the dremora's armour to the extent that she even left dents in the exceptionally hard metal. Even though the daedra managed to defend himself flawlessly he was now fighting a losing battle and as a result was losing the ground he'd gained at a rate of knots until it were he mere steps from the drop, instead of his enemy. The Argonian was still there, frozen with fear and blinded with the pain from the cut to his arm, placing himself almost at the centre of the fierce battle by almost pure unlucky coincidence.

The Kynval took its final opportunity for revenge and swiped the Argonian's legs from beneath him with a well timed kick, sending Turner sprawling over the edge of the ledge. The mer screamed in frustration and blasted another shock spell directly into the dremora's chest so that he too suffered a similar fate, then she dashed to the edge and spoke the words of a slowfall enchantment as quickly as she could muster.

A young life depended on it.

xxx

Seanturco hated himself. He had failed.

His magicka supply had run out only moments before his energy and he was left grasping at the rail of the stairs in the County Hall of Skingrad for support while his legs shook with the mere effort of holding himself up.

"Give me a break," he whispered savagely at his own body as he struggled his way down the stairs, his eyes averted to the carpeted floor and an expression of dissatisfaction on his face.

The guards let him go. They were forbidden to enter the Count's private quarters under any condition and had pulled off their chase as soon as he had crossed the threshold. Needless to say they were unimpressed with him and scowled the entire time during his journey from the top floor to the door, apparently convinced that the Count did not view him as any kind of threat considering he was leaving freely. If he had had more magicka in his bloodstream he might have cast a Restore Fatigue spell to avoid embarrassing himself as he struggled across the County Hall, however his magicka was so depleted at this moment that he could not have even cast the most basic of fireball spells even if he'd wanted to.

He felt so useless without magic in his system. As an Altmer he'd been born with naturally high levels of the stuff already in his bloodstream, unlike most of the other races who acquired it through practice, and therefore he had never really felt drained when casting a spell.

Looking back he assumed he could have cast a spell with a fixed duration, but those were weaker and achieved very little. Instead he had resolved to cast a spell which relied on a constant supply of magicka to maintain it and banked upon his natural magical aptitude to keep it strong. Unfortunately his abilities were not quite as unlimited as he'd taken them to be before he'd commited himself to the task.

The Hero of Kvatch would think him weak, worthless, monstrous, and in somes ways he'd agree with her. He had shown his own weaknesses for all to see by failing to maintain the spell, and he was a monster for not staying behind to aid the Argonian in the gate, a monster and a coward. Now he was to search for said Dunmer with no magicka and no weapon to his name while avoiding the murderous daedra on the other side of the city walls.

Of course he was not completely defenseless; vampires had superior strength and speed, and venomous fangs that could stop a beating heart in a matter of minutes at the right concentration, but that didn't stop him _feeling_ worthless.

Perhaps he would finally agree with that Dunmer on something.

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Author Note: Heh, how's that for an unintentional cliffhanger, eh? I detest writing cliffhangers, but somehow this one just... happened. Sooo... what do you think of my first action chapter? Good? Bad? Terrible? I know in the last section I may have used the words 'magicka' 'magic' and 'magical' too much, and if you have any suggestions for alternatives I'd love to hear them, since I couldn't think of one off the top of my head. Ah yes, and sorry for the chopping and changing of the perspectives; I quite like it, but I'm bound to get some complaints. I couldn't get the chapter to work any other way.

_Right, logistical things: take the spell with a slight pinch of salt, I know you can't do spells like that in the game but I hope I explained it alright at the end; secondly, the tower is like a regular tower with a lift in, except that the top floor only spans half of the round part of the tower, so there's a whopping great gap between one wall and the floor, therefore somewhere for people to fall from *ahem* Turner *ahem*; also, I realise that Hassildor's mind is changed pretty quickly, so you needn't point that out, however I did write it like that intentionally so... yeah... Please don't take it that Turner's naturally good with a sword either, he's clumsy as ever and running on adrenalin for most of the chapter... I think I showed up his terribleness after it had worn off, but I'm not sure..._

_Anyway, let me know what you think. I know people will probably now accuse me of plagerising other people because mine came out second or at a similar time or whatever, but I assure you that, if I were to plagerise you, I would do it a little more originally than this load of drivel! Plus, I would be HAPPY if someone plagerised me, 'cause it shows that people like my ideas... So long as they gave me a little credit at some stage (like the git who copy and pasted my entire profile without asking me :S). Enough from me for now. ~ARTY~_

**Bluedrake: If you're still reading by this stage, how do you expect me to answer a question left in an anonymous review on a chapter I finished over a month ago? Secondly, if you read carefully you'll see that she actually reveals like nothing. I did write it that way deliberately. Anywho, thanks for being the 50th review anyway.**

**N.B. **_**Commentaholic, watch out, I expect the 54th review will turn up over the next chapter or two!**_


	19. The Deadlands

_Author Note: Heh, me again. I'll put the main author's note at the end, so read on. Enjoy :)_

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Chapter 19

The sensation of falling was a strange one for Turner to describe. His body felt weightless as it travelled through the warm, dry air and plummeted to a nearly certain death on the spikes below. There were no theatrics to his falling, no flashbacks or tears of grief; in fact only one emotion shone out above the rest: relief.

Seeing Idari, while enough to make his body freeze with shock, inspired him to a new sense of gladness. At least now the gate would be shut and Skingrad would be saved, even if he ended up paying for their salvation with his own life.

He was fully prepared to die for his cause.

Suddenly he felt a strange sensation flow over his body and engulf him in wisps of white magic. What was Idari doing? Healing him before he smashed into the spikes? Great load of use that would be.

Asides the initial feeling, there was nothing to follow it, no stab of pain or knitting flesh, so he assumed that it must have been some kind of placebo spell to make him feel better about his awful predicament. He watched as the dremora, armour and all, tumbled past him to a grimly inevitable fate and saw Idari's face appear over the edge of the ledge before she took off down the ramp as quickly as she could muster.

_She's too late_, he thought to himself as he fell, and surprisingly this thought came out calmly despite its connotations. _Even if she cared she wouldn't reach me in time, and she clearly doesn't care anyway..._

He heard the sickening sound of the dremora being impaled on the spikes below and it sent eerie shivers down his spine and waves of nausea to wash over him as he anticipated his own similar demise. He saw Idari again; she hadn't gotten far, but he was almost at the base by now and certain death.

_I didn't achieve anything I wanted to_, he reflected sourly. _I wonder what happens to mortals who die in Oblivion... Do their souls then belong to the Daedric Lords or do they go to the Void like others do? Oh well. One soul in exchange for the lives of so many people seems a worthy bargain. I wonder if history will ever recall my part in the battle, or will they only care about Idari? Oh well..._

He closed his golden eyes tightly for what he assumed to be the last time and braced himself for an impact that would never come. He only opened his eyes again when he came to rest gently on the metal platform which then began to ascend with the usual orchestra of groans. Idari was at the top still, her arms folded and her right foot tapping impatiently against the stone.

She did not look impressed.

Perhaps it would have been a better idea to die...

xxx

Skingrad was a shambles; people were still running from house to house and screams were still audible, the materialistic among the crowds were trying to protect their own possessions while others simply tried to save their our hides from the daedra. A few guards and members of the Fighters and Mages Guilds had climbed up onto the walls and were firing arrows and spells down onto the demons below with appallingly bad accuracy. Seanturco recognised a few of the Mages Guild members from the time he'd spent there collecting a recommendation.

The guards had resolved to keep the people within the city walls and protect the gates; it was probably the safest option available to them as it would be more difficult for the daedra to breech the city walls than it would be for them to pick off a few stragglers in an evacuation attempt.

Seanturco joined the Mages Guild on the battlements and pulled his hood down further to prevent recognition. He didn't want anyone to notice him in his condition. Avoiding a fireball from a flame atronach that would spell almost certain death for him he glanced down at the battlefield below. It was littered with corpses.

His eyes swept the scene below sadly. Men and mer lay dead among daedra and dremora, bleeding and broken on the charred ground. At the moment it didn't seem viable to leave the city and search for the Hero of Kvatch, and yet he only had an hour in which to do so, so time was of the essence.

He looked for an opening in the fight for him to slip through, but each time one appeared it was quickly refilled by the valiant soldiers and the fearsome monsters that attacked them. His magicka was not yet replenished enough to cast an invisibility spell and his head ached uncomfortably, made worse by the painful shrieks and the clashing of steel that was finding its way into his ears.

"Hi, Mage," he heard a call from behind him, and turned sharply to see a Breton woman who he recognised as Adrienne Berene, head of the Skingrad Mages Guild chapter, firing a spell at an unsuspecting daedroth below. "Your abilites would be of considerable -" she paused to fire another spell and duck out of the way of a fireball that missed her head by a fraction of an inch. "- use in this situation."

Seanturco wondered how he had been recognised as a mage, but then realised that he was still clothed in the robes of an apprentice from the Arcane University and swore. He was in no fit state to be fighting at this time.

Luckily however the Skingrad chapter, who's speciality was the school of destruction, seemed to be coping well enough with the influx of daedra without his help. Adrienne seemed to be more interested in making sure her own spells hit their marks than what he was doing at the moment anyway.

_Besides_, Seanturco admitted, _I outrank her now anyway._

Suddenly the Altmer saw something below that made him frown. A purpley-black horse with fiery red eyes in the centre of the battle that seem to have no difficulty in dispatching scamps with a single flick of its hoof. He recognised the animal almost instantly and his own red eyes narrowed in distaste.

She was here already.

She'd saved him a trip, the Hero of Kvatch, by returning to defend Skingrad of her own accord, and she'd also saved him a probably very long and very awkward attempt at persuading her while standing in the sunlight and burning himself to a crisp, however she'd also robbed him of his moment of glorious triumph and therefore had rendered him useless.

Also, if the Argonian was dead, he doubted he'd receive any help from the Dunmer, especially as it would be his fault in her eyes.

At the feet of the Breton woman lay a box of potions that had previously gone unnoticed by him; the label was clear - Restore Magicka Potion - and he kicked himself for not seeing it before. Obviously mages would bring a supply of potion to a long battle like this, otherwise they'd be useless.

Without asking for permission, the vampire grabbed one and ripped out the cork viciously. If Adrienne noticed she didn't seem to mind. He drank the contents of the little pink bottle in two gulps and threw the empty canister aside disdainfully. In an instant he felt magicka returning to his body and his scowl softened into a slight smirk.

Immediately he leapt up and cast a rather overzealous bolt of lightning zapping through a clannfear and frying its insides so that it fell to the ground singed and very obviously dead. His smirk grew into a full smile now as he froze a flame atronach where it stood, no mean feat considering it had been on fire beforehand.

_Yeah,_ he thought to himself smugly as he eyed the almost full bottle of restore magicka potions at Adrienne's feet. _Who's useless now?_

xxx

Idari Mortha fumed with anger. "What were you _thinking_?" she demanded while the lift was still climbing upwards, Argonian and impaled dremora corpse in tow. "You think it's a _game_ to go running around in Oblivion do you? You think I'll come and save you every time? You think you're going to save the world? Well I'll tell you something, Kvatch didn't fall to a single gate, and shutting this one doesn't even mean you're going to save Skingrad, let alone save Nirn!"

She telekinetically flipped the dremora's body off the edge of the platform before springing on herself, prefering to mutter a Command Humanoid spell to raise Turner to his feet rather than offering him a helping hand.

The Argonian gazed up at the distance he had just fallen and sincerely began to wonder how he was still alive. "I was doing just fine before you came along..." he muttered as the spell dropped him onto his feet unceremoniously.

"Not what it looked like to me," the Dunmer spat back at him, casting a weak healing spell to fix the cut to his forearm. "You cowering in a corner with no weapon against a dremora in full armour wielding a whopping great sword. Do you honestly have a death wish?"

Turner's eyes flashed angrily. "And how do you think those other daedra around there ended up dead? You think I just strolled in here with no weapon and encountered no opposition!" he growled at her indignantly.

Idari considered this, folding her arms and leaning her back against the central spike as the platform descended. "Pray, tell me how you got in here, oh mighty pondscum," she said, sarcasm dripping into her speech in bucketloads.

"I had a sword," was as far as he got before he was interupted again.

"Really?" the Dunmer replied in mock interest. "And where is your sword now?"

"It was a summoned sword," he told her fiercely, his fists clenched in an angry gesture. Had she not just saved his life, and were she not a vastly better fighter than him, he might have punched her in the face for teasing him after what he'd been through. "It dissipated just before you turned up."

Idari rolled her eyes in disbelief and moved swiftly to the edge of the platform so that she did not end up skewered on the spike of the floor. "Sure it did," she said contemptuously. "You can't even cast a Snowball spell properly, let alone a Bound Sword spell... And anyway, you wouldn't even know how to use one if it hit you in the face."

Turner bit back an equally sarcastic reply angrily. She was right, he knew that perfectly well, but she had no right to insult him like that and no reason to do so either. Of course, now he only doubled his efforts to prove her wrong. "At least give me a chance," he said with a deep sigh as she looked at the corpse of the dead dremora inquisitively.

She stooped down and picked something up; turning, she revealed herself to be holding the sword of the dead warrior at her feet. It was still dripping with blood and thus she held it at arms length, but she offered it to the Argonian as a distorted sign of good grace. "Here's your chance," she said, thrusting it into his hands forcefully. "I'm not going to cast a Bound Sword spell on you, and I'm not going to save your sorry arse every time you get into trouble, so you'd best shut up and keep up if you want to make it out of here alive."

Turner was shocked by how much heavier this sword was than the last one and almost dropped it on the floor as soon as he took hold of it. "How do we close this thing then?" he asked, testing the sword in his right hand to see if he could even lift it high enough to swing.

Idari smirked. "Finally asking the right questions..." she muttered to herself as she watched him intently, her gaze making him feel self-conscious and pathetic. "In the main tower there's a Sigil stone. If we remove the stone from the top of the tower the gate will collapse and in theory we'll end up back in Skingrad. That's only theoretical though; I've only ever done this alone..."

The Argonian nodded. He had expected that large tower on the opposite side of the lava lake to be important in some respect, however with this last piece of information everything seemed to slot into place finally.

As they left the secondary tower Turner took a proper look around now that he was not so high on adrenalin that he felt nothing. The ground beneath his feet was blackened as if it had been burnt to a crisp and cracked in so many places that it was almost difficult to walk let alone to run across. Towers dotted the smoky horizon similar to the one he had just been inside and arches were scattered across the charred ground with the remanents of slaughtered humans still attached crudely. Dead bodies of men and mer hung from the arches by thin ropes, burnt to cinders, and more bodies were stuck to blackened walls like trophies. Turner was even sure he saw a couple of skulls impaled on spikes as he ran, but by then he was so disgusted that he had stopped paying attention to the landscape and begun to focus souly on getting out of this dreadful place.

"Fire towers," he vaguely registered Idari saying, following the direction in which she was waving her sword nonchalently until he saw what it was she was pointing at. "They shoot you, but they're pretty easy to avoid. If you see one spinning I suggest you get out of the way quick. Also there are landmines. The landmines are pretty difficult to avoid, but if you run fast enough you'll be out of the way before they detonate, otherwise you'll basically just get burnt to a crisp like those unlucky twits up there."

She stopped speaking abruptly and spun on the spot to decapitate a scamp that Turner had yet to even notice before continuing on her way silently, scanning the area for a way across the lake of lava. For want of a better vantage point she climbed quickly up a rockface to stare across the lake to the tower on the other side, oblivious to the clannfear that had since spotted the now solitary Argonian and was charging towards its prey.

Turner noticed it running towards him and his heartrate took an unexpected leap, the sword in his hands beginning to feel less of a burden as adrenalin and fear once again combined in his system to help him lift it high enough to once again let it crash back down onto the creature's back. The blade struck the clannfear's bony crest awkwardly and glanced off having caused minimal damage.

Idari didn't seem concerned; she scanned the smoky horizon for a path across the molten lake, heat radiating from it as she stood on a rocky ground above. Quickly her eyes locked onto a small path a stepping-stone-like islands leading to the main tower itself, the blackened earth standing out in stark contrast to the swirling orange lava below it. The Dunmer grinned in satisfaction and turned just in time to watch her Argonian counterpart narrowly avoid being bitten by the sharp beak of a clannfear that he appeared to be trying pathetically to battle.

Jumping down from the rock in a single swift movement she sliced her katana through the back of the clannfear's neck, severing its head cleanly. Shaking her sword to evict rogue blood drops she growled in disapproval.

"Sword. Head. Cut. OK?" she whispered angrily with a heavy sigh, mimicking the action of swinging a sword as she did so. "I found a way across the lava. You can jump, right?"

Turner scowled at her briefly. "Not everyone's as great with a sword as you are. And yes, I can jump, I'm not an idiot."

He heard her mutter something almost inaudibly before she ran around the rock she had previously been standing on and he followed her like a loyal pet. _I'm not an idiot_, he thought to himself bitterly. _Now that I know how to close the gate I could easily run ahead and do it instead of her_.

Unfortunately he was more than aware of the consequences those actions would have. She would be trapped in Oblivion forever to fight until she could fight no more and then to be used as a decoration for their gory walls. As much as he disliked her attitude and the way she treated him he didn't want her to die like that.

He didn't want _anyone_ to have to die like that.

She led the way across the island stepping stones with ease; the jumps had been further than she had been able to anticipate from atop the rock, but not to far for her to falter. However for added security she sneakily used a touch Fortify Agility spell on the Argonian before she made her way across.

Falling into a pit of lava was not a nice way to go.

Turner was surprised to find that he could jump the large gaps between the tiny islands with no real difficulty. He suspected that she had probably cast some ridiculous spell on him before she'd gone across, since she had a habit of doing that to him when she felt like it. He knew he would have been able to traverse the lake of his own accord, but it would probably have been a much more difficult task if he'd done it alone.

Above them the tower loomed with overwhelming foreboding and appeared to stretch higher into the red fiery sky than it had from the other side of the lake. There was a few daedra scattered around it but not in the numbers that they had been suspecting. Obviously mortals were never intended to reach this stage in the journey.

Every time Turner killed a daedra he ended up swearing in annoyance that Idari had not been paying attention, too wrapped up in her own slaughter to pay any heed to him. Outwardly he tried not to seem bothered that she thought him weak, pathetic and utterly pitiful, but inwardly he knew that he'd like to be praised by her only once. That would honestly have made his day.

The Dunmer cut down the last daedroth with a definitive slash of her now dented and blood-stained katana and kicked its body aside as if it were a piece of rubbish. She didn't suspect her blade would last much longer and was particularly glad that she always carried a shortsword even though it reduced her mobility greatly - or at least it had, at first.

Taking a moment to allow the Argonian to catch his breath she surveyed the tower with a scrutinising eye. "Inside," she told him. "There will be way more daedra than out here, and they have the advantage of fighting on their home turf. There are booby-traps all over the place and there are a fair few dremora. You've got a better sword than me, so I'm going to need you to watch my back in there. We won't bother with the sigil key, I'll just pick the lock, but you still need to pay extra attention. Most of the daedra will be scamps and dremora; scamps are easy to kill and even you shouldn't have a problem with that, but dremora are difficult. There's usually a gap in the dremora's armour just below their neck where you can stab, so aim for that if you can. If not then just run like hell to the top of the tower and grab the sigil stone, don't worry about me. Got that?"

Turner stared at her. "You'd be trapped here," he pointed out in disbelief. "You can't seriously expect me to..."

"So what?" Idari replied bluntly. It was probably the simplicity of her answer that made him gasp loudly. She smirked. "Better I get trapped here than you pondscum, you wouldn't last five minutes in this place after the gate was shut. Besides, that's a worst case scenario, just don't die on me OK?"

She didn't even give him a chance to respond.

The inside of the tower was shocking in comparison to the realm outside, a round room with a high ceiling and walls as black as night. In the centre was a column of fire roaring loudly upwards, bursting through the ceiling into the room above and raising the room below to an unpleasant temperature. Idari trudged forwards first, ignoring the heat and running at what seemed to be the tougher of the two dremora who were present on the ground floor. Turner gritted his teeth against the lump forming in his stomach and launched into battle with the other.

The Dunmer's dremora was fully armoured to even include the helm, a powerful mace in its gauntleted hand and a shield lashed to it's left arm tightly. It blocked her sword with alarming precision and attempted to perform a manoeuvre to throw her off balance, which failed fairly spectacularly as she skipped aside simply.

The dremora Turner went up against was a mage and very nearly took his head off with a fireball before he even realised what was going on. He ducked the spell at the last moment and sheathed his sword in a singular movement, drawing his bow from over his head and nocking an arrow. The projectile he loosed hit the unsuspecting the daedra in the chest and penetrated its skin just far enough to draw blood and cause the dremora to roar in a language that the Argonian didn't understand.

Turner didn't waste time and loosed another arrow quickly, this time striking the dremora on the shoulder and stepping aside as another spell whistled past his head at a surprising pace.

"Foolish mortal," the dremora growled in Cyrodilic, its voice coarse and obviously unpracticed in this language. It reached up and yanked the arrow from its bloody shoulder without so much as a flinch, leaving the decidedly more dangerous arrow lodged in its chest.

Turner gulped and drew the sword again, running towards the dremora to end the battle before he started to lose. He swung it blindly, his eyes shut at the point of impact and his ears blocking out the cry of pain that his unarmoured opponent emmited as it fell to the ground, a gash stretching from its hip to its opposite shoulder and blood splashing across the assassin's black armour. The Argonian did his best to ignore the gore.

Idari was still locked in battle with the dremora and Turner watched her inquisitively. He would have waded in the help her, had the dremora not been garbed in full armour and therefore not a great target for an archer. When neither side appeared to be winning the Argonian ventured a step closer to the fight. The longer reach of Idari's sword was countered by the dremora's shield, and the Dunmer found it a simple task to avoid the swings of the daedric mace.

Turner crept further forward, her request to leave her behind evicted to the back of his mind and a determination to prove her wrong growing in his heart. He plunged his sword up to the hilt into the dremora's back, Idari leaping backwards in shock as she'd been so engrossed that she hadn't even noticed him cross the room. The daedra shouted in pain before dropping limply to the floor as the sword was withdrawn, blood pooling around it quickly.

"What did you do that for?" Idari demanded, her shock lasting only a couple of seconds as she took in what she had just witnessed.

"Helping," the Argonian replied, wiping the blade of his sword against his already bloodstained leg. There didn't seem to be any doubt in his voice.

"Helping?" the Dunmer repeated furiously. "That's got to be the _least_ honourable way of killing someone! Stabbing them in the back? I told you to leave me behind!"

"No can do Sister," he told her, his expression not betraying a single emotion. "They would not extend the same honour to you. You're the Hero of Kvatch, Tamriel needs you. If I leave you here then I will be the least useful person in history. I don't intend to leave you, even if I have to kill someone dishonourably in order to do so."

"But you hate killing..."

"Sometimes necessity outweighs personal preferences," Turner said bluntly. Idari was a little surprised by the wisdom that seemed to be flowing from his mouth but didn't allow it to show, instead dashing through the doorway to her left and starting up the slope.

The rest of the ascent up the tower was relatively simple, save for Turner almost getting himself beheaded by a large sword that was attached precariously to the ceiling and activated by an altogether too obvious tripwire strung crudely across the black obsidian floor. Idari caught it with telekinesis before he even noticed it. The room above had been a square room containing four pillars, a fountain of sparkling blue magicka essence and a quickly dispatched scamp that really gave the pair no resistance whatsoever, a floor higher presented a similar task with two scamps that fell quickly to the mortal intruders as they powered forwards. When Idari raised a hand to signify that they were stopping Turner whipped around to notice a door that he had previously overlooked and that the Dunmer was now proceeding to open with a lockpick.

It seemed to be a more difficult lock than the ones he had seen her open before as she broke a pick before each obsidian tumbler finally locked into place. A look of grim satisfaction covered her face as the door swung open before them and they made their way into the Sigillum Sanguis at the very top of the tower.

The floor of the passageway seemed to be made of some kind of volcanic stone and was awkward underfoot from the ridges that had been made in it, probably to make it simpler for the daedra to walk over and hinder mortals at the same time. The walls were restricting and the black obsidian gave the impression of closing in around them as they travelled upwards; the journey didn't last long however, as they reached a gap in the right hand wall almost immediately admitting them into what was easily the largest room of the whole tower. In the centre the magical fire ripped its way upwards from the reddened floor and roared on its way almost deafeningly; around the red pit lay what appeared to be bones fashioned into a staircase that clung to the circular wall to allow passageway to the next level on which carpets of flesh led up to the top level and the ultimate prize: the sigil stone.

There were a few more daedra in this room than they had experienced in the lower levels of the tower, but no more than the numbers encountered beyond the tower walls in the Deadlands themselves. Turner's daedric sword sliced through the resistance easily while Idari had been reduced to using her shortsword in the hope of protecting her favoured katana until it could be fixed by an armourer.

They ran up separate staircases, Turner obviously less convinced that the bones would hold his weight than his companion and Idari resolving that she would increase her strength so that next time she would be able to simply push the daedra into the fiery pit below. If there was a next time.

By the time they had reached the second platform the Dunmer had given up fighting the opposition, instead merely dodging their blows as she ran to the fleshy ramp, daedric entourage in tow. She was standing on the top platform, a round slab of stone with only a pouch made of human skin for decoration, in good time to turn and meet her attackers head on. A scamp was singed by a well placed bolt of lightning striking it square in the chest and sending it toppling over the edge into the fire below and a clannfear seemed to lose its footing of its own accord as she dodged its charge with a simple sidestep.

The Argonian joined her quickly having dispatched the majority of the daedra on the other side but now looking out of breath and haggard from the battle. Ignoring the final dremora Idari plucked the sigil stone from its fiery home and sprinted to her companion as the world around them seemed to burst into flames, souls of dead and dying daedra screaming in protest.

The last dremora attempted to make a final stand against the mortal intruders, running at them resiliantly but coming away fruitless as they disappeared from the daedric plain and the gate anchoring the two realities together collapsed.

xxx

Seanturco had just finished blasting the umpteeth daedroth back the the hellish place it had come from when a loud rumble filled his ears, shaking the walls he was standing on and inspiring fear into even the bravest of the warriors that he had been fighting alongside.

There had been some losses in the battle, but that was expected, and nowhere near the numbers of daedra that had been ended on their first voyage into Tamriel.

The ground shaking lasted for almost a minute before a colossal snapping sound was accompanied by the gate collapsing in on itself, the fire extinguishing and the obsidian columns smashing into the burnt ground beneath. The people who had been defending Skingrad rejoiced as the remaining daedric stragglers were picked off like sitting ducks, unsure of what to do now that their stream of reinforcements was halted. A dust plume filled the air as ashes rose from the ground and visibility became almost zero.

The vampire grinned; Skingrad was saved and he had had at least some part in it. Around him people were searching for their friends or their families, so glad that they had not ended up like the citizens of Kvatch that all their self-dignity was thrown into the wind. The heavens opened and torrents of water began to pour down onto the parched ground, clearing the storm of ash in a matter of moments.

Two figures stood among the carnage below the battlements looking weary and battle-worn, out of place in the centre of the dead bodies of men and mer and daedra that covered the ground like a carpet. A few surviving guards ran to them and spoke with them, words that would never have carried all the way to the top of the walls even into vampiric ears like Seanturco's. He descended the crude ladder to the streets below quickly and tried to push his way to the gate in order to see if the Dunmer and Argonian had survived unscathed, and to prove to the Hero of Kvatch that he had not just left as she would almost certainly suspect; however people got in the way by blocking the roadways and holding their reunions in inappropriate places.

Suddenly a cry went up among the people within the city: "The Hero of Kvatch!" and it echoed around the town as it was passed from citizen to citizen. Nobody seemed to be paying any notice of the Hero's companion. Seanturco scrambled back up the ladder just in time to see the two stragglers being led in the direction of the castle by the grateful guards below.

"Oh for the love of Talos," the Altmer growled under his breath as he turned to make his way to the castle to intercept them, only to find that the street leading that way was now blocked too. "Only way this could get any bloody better is if the sun decided to come out and shine on me."

Unfortunately for Seanturco, his morbid wish was definitely not beyond coming true.

* * *

_Author Note: Well there are some among you who will say that this was a fast update. Truth is you're wrong, very wrong, more wrong than you realise. I should have finished and posted this yesterday but I couldn't be bothered to write anything so I finished it off today. Besides, I'm still not finishing a chapter daily like I used to, so this is SLOW for me. Just thought I'd point that out. My thoughts on this chapter? I've written better, I've written worse. Personally I preferred 18 to this one, but if you think differently then tell me - and tell me why, I can't improve unless you tell me what I've done wrong, right? There's probably a reason behind everything you think sounds bit wrong, like the fact that Turner got out his bow and arrow, or the fact that there was a convenient crate of potions at Seanturco's feet. The crate is logical; what sort of a mage would go into battle without one? The bow and arrow was because the dremora was unarmoured, as I mentioned after he'd killed it. I would go back and change it, but I don't know if I really want to since it's alright as it is._

_Thanks for your support last chapter. 'Specially Rollieo122. Why? Because she named Turner AND Seanturco and, after a lot of nagging from me, finally got around to reviewing me despite the fact that she's never even played Oblivion save from running around and accidentally stabbing Phinteas (that was an amusing moment in my Oblivion history) while trying to speak with him. If she reads this I will be amazed. Thanks also to DualKatanas for the great advice, as always, and to Nachtrae and Commentaholic who I actually don't think I've mentioned in an author note yet, so here's your mention! Meh, enough rambling. As I don't have as much research to do for the next chapter it should be quicker, but I doubt it since I have play rehearsals etc to deal with first. ~ARTY~_


	20. Julianos

_**Immediate thoughts: **Who noticed the joke in chapter 19? Idari: 'You think it's game to go running around in Oblivion?' Made me laugh when I looked back and noticed it because, of course, it IS a game to go running around in Oblivion._

_Arty Thrip: -Gets Idari to disintegrate all Commentaholic's buckets- Seriously, two minutes? Don't want you to drown, unless you're like half Argonian (which actually isn't possible). :)_

_DualKatanas: y'know what, I was going to use Else God-Hater in a similar way to the way you did in chapter 12. Can't now, I'll be accused of plagerism again and someone might end up drowning themself in a bucket. -goes back to Mythic Dawn research to find another sleeper agent-_

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Chapter 20

"I really haven't the time for congratulations," the mer in the black hood was insisting as the guards led her and her companion to Skingrad castle. She was from Morrowind, her accent said as much, so the Imperial guards presumed her to be a Dark Elf however they had been wrong before and thus kept their thoughts respectfully to themselves.

They were in the presence of the Hero of Kvatch after all.

The Argonian said nothing and seemed to be dazed beneath his hood. The guards accepted this as normal, seeing as the pair had just saved Skingrad for peril and disaster.

Rain spattered across the dry earth and was sucked up greedily, turning the area into more of a muddy field than any kind of city. While Skingrad and the West Weald were famous for wines, tomatoes and cheeses, it was highly doubtful that they would get a very good harvest - if any - this year. It was a small price to pay.

The castle itself was one of the few places entirely unscathed by the battle, not even so much as a blackened stone was visible on its exterior, and yet it seemed to be even better guarded than the city itself, parts of which were still burning or broken despite the heavy torrent of rain.

Once the heroes were delivered to the County Hall all of the guards were dismissed by the Argonian stewardess as was the norm in Skingrad. The Count didn't want people to know of his condition, but he didn't help himself by not stirring up suspicion among his subjects.

Janus Hassildor descended the stairs smoothly, his back straight and his pace brisk but regal, his red eyes surveying the pair before him. They were an odd pair: the Argonian who had come to him asking for a cure for vampirism, slightly taller than the Count, though many years younger, with a bow slung over his shoulder and what looked like a daedric sword hanging from his belt and weighing him down on one side; the other was smaller and female, the Count suspected a Dunmer judging by the way she held herself, and she carried a silver shortsword and an Akaviri katana, though Hassildor had seen enough assassins in his time to know that she was carrying other weapons that she had concealed. He could have told she was an assassin from a mile away.

"You have Skingrad's thanks," the Count uttered regally. "Your deeds will not be forgotten." Out of the corner of his blood red eyes he caught a glimpse of the mer shifting impatiently. "You have somewhere to be, Dunmer?" he asked sarcastically.

Idari scowled at him evilly. "As a matter of fact I do. I have a million and one places I need to be right now, and here is not one of them."

Hassildor's gaze left her abruptly and focused instead on her companion. "You have made any progress with the cure?" he asked on an entirely different note.

Turner shook his head. "We were about to head out when the gate opened up here. We couldn't just leave the city to fall."

"And where is your Altmeri counterpart?" the vampire quizzed him, his lips curling into a subtle smile.

The Argonian's eyes widened in realisation. "Oh Azura," he cursed mildly under his breath. "I couldn't tell you sir," he said in a slightly louder tone. "He stayed behind because he doesn't mix well with fire in his... condition."

"Probably ran away at the first opportunity..." the Dunmer muttered to herself, inaudibly to anybody with less than vampiric hearing abilities.

"He was here gathering reinforcements," the Count informed them with another smile. "He said he would find me the Hero of Kvatch. It is evident, however, that the Hero of Kvatch has instead found me, leaving our mage out of the picture. As you are well aware I cannot have someone of his condition in my city for an extended length of time for obvious reasons, so I suggest you both go and find him before you embark to your 'million and one' places you need to be. Skingrad will eternally be indebted to the both of you; if you ever need anything do not hesitate to ask." Hassildor left the conversation at that, spinning smartly on his heels and climbing back up the stairs gracefully no doubt to return to his wife's bedside.

"Finally..." Idari sighed heavily, her voice full of exasperation. "Well I'm not going to search for that mage of yours, I'm going to Bruma. Enjoy your fame. People will recognise you as the 'Hero of Skingrad'; you aren't as forgetable as me." She grinned cheekily and took off at a surprising pace through the double doors towards the site where she had last seen her horse.

The Argonian blinked after her for quite some time before making his own way outside, taking some comfort in the fact that the sky was no longer ablaze before he realised, to his horror, that it appeared to be dawn. "Bugger," he breathed, breaking into a run back down the hill towards the city. The morning was certainly a bad time to be searching for a vampire.

xxx

Seanturco was trapped in a terrible predicament. He could ask the people to move out of his way and reveal his hissing voice and the fangs protruding beneath his upper lip or he could stay where he was and smoke to death. Either way people would soon realise what he was and when they did vampire hunters would be crawling all over Skingrad in a matter of hours. Good deeds aside, a vampire was still a vampire and they would be hated constantly no matter what they did.

He could feel his skin begin to prick uncomfortably as he tried to slip past a family who seemed to need the entire street to confirm that they were indeed all alive at this time. He was further from the walls at this point, but nowhere near his ultimate destination of the castle. Glancing around for some form of shelter from the sun his red eyes immediately focused on the Great Chapel in the southern half of the town.

Going into the chapel would likely create an uproar if he was noticed, but it was better than breaking into somebody's house to avoid the sun, and better still than merely staying in the sun and burning to death.

_I hate my life_, he felt like muttering as he trudged towards the shelter that he so desperately needed, _or my afterlife, if I'm pedantic. Those two 'Heroes' will likely leave without me too, and then I have no chance of getting anywhere_. He knew this was untrue. He had every ability of merely finding a cure for vampirism of his own accord, and that seemed a far better plan than consorting with an assassin and goodness only knows what the Argonian's real career choice was. _At least I did my bit for Tamriel_...

Evidently he was wrong. Shutting this particular gate had no bearing whatsoever on whether or not Tamriel was saved. Kvatch fell and the gate was later shut, and it only really affected the immediate areas of Kvatch and the Gold Coast. Saving Skingrad would have a similar effect. Nothing.

Seanturco was lucky that it was only dawn or he might have died on his journey to the chapel. As it was his skin was vaguely beginning to smoke as he walked through the dim sunlight as swiftly as he was able without seeming suspicious.

He just hoped things wouldn't get any worse.

xxx

Turner stared at the streets of Skingrad blankly. "OK," he said to himself quietly. "Let's have some visualisation..." He paused a moment to think about what he was trying to achieve. "Right then," he continued, apparently dissatisfied with the outcome of his previous experiment. "I'm a vampire. I'm a mage. It's sunny. Where do I go?" His eyes scanned the skyline and immediately settled on the building that he had overlooked as insignificant before: the chapel. "Of course I'd go to the chapel," he reasoned with himself. "The Mages Guild is too obvious, people would recognise me as a vampire. I can't go to the taverns because I'm a vampire. I can't break into someone's house, I'm a law-abiding Altmer mage. I go somewhere big where people will be distracted and hopefully won't notice me. Simple."

No sooner had he taken a step in the direction of the chapel than he was ambushed by a Breton woman with short brown hair held loosely out of her face by a grimy cloth band. Her clothes were ripped in places and her face appeared to be covered in ash but beneath it all her expression was surprisingly light and cheerful. "Are you the Argonian who shut the gate?" she asked him excitedly, as if she were addressing the Emperor of all of Tamriel instead of a lowly ex-beggar

Turner stared at the woman awkwardly, contemplating his answer. "I played my part..." he replied to her cryptically. It was the best answer he had been able to come up with on the spot without giving too much away. A simple 'yes' would have sufficed.

The woman beamed through the dirt. "You saved our town!" she pointed out, her excitement rising to the point where she was almost shouting at him.

"I noticed..." the Argonian muttered, trying to push past her. Though she barely came up to his shoulder he seemed to be having some trouble in simply walking around her. This newfound fame was both unexpected and unwelcome. He suddenly found himself somewhat sympathising with a certain Dunmeri companion of his too.

She had endured this for far longer than him. No wonder she wanted to stay anonymous.

Glancing at her once more Turner noticed that the woman had been spouting some kind of drivel at him that he had been completely oblivious to. She seemed to be looking at him for an answer to a question that he had not been listening to. "I... have to go..." he told her pathetically, pushing her aside just firmly enough to make a path past her and head off towards the chapel. He certainly didn't want an adoring fan to follow him about.

If she spoke again he couldn't tell. He had been ignoring her for the last five minutes anyway, so anything she said would not be in context even if he decided to listen to her. However thankfully she didn't seem as though she was going to persue him down the narrow streets as he strode off.

Upon closer inspection he realised that it was probably blatantly obvious that he was the Argonian who had saved Skingrad. Idari had the advantage of being a mer, but Turner had a tail that clearly identified him as an Argonian. Twinning that with the fact that he was the only Argonian in town wearing black leather armour and a hood, and the only one to be carrying around a massive sword as well as a bow and quiver of arrows, it occured to him that anybody who _didn't_ recognise him had evidently not been paying enough attention in the battle.

In Skingrad the Great Chapel was dedicated to Julianos, god of literature, law, history and contradiction. To Turner Julianos seemed the least useful of all the Divines; who had a use for a god of logic? However evidently somebody did as people seemed to be flocking to the chapel at this time to praise the Nine for their salvation.

_It wasn't the Nine that saved you_, Turner thought bitterly, though he was glad that the sudden onslaught of people allowed him to slip inside almost unnoticed. He wanted recognition but not adoration, something which he was never going to get. It was better to remain unknown.

While he had been training in the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary beneath Cheydinhal he had learnt one thing about remaining unseen: to stay in plain sight. If someone is searching for an intruder they will rarely see what is right in front of them, but searching for a single Altmer in a chapel bustling with people praying and rejoicing was still about as easy as searching for a needle in a pile of needles.

The priests were clammering for a respite from the people who were flooding in, the Breton healer doing her best to see to all the minor cuts and bruises as well as the significantly more serious burns and breaks from the fires that the mages outside were only just seeing to extinguishing now that the shock of the battle was wearing off.

The Argonian's golden eyes surveyed the scene before him; the people who were not surrounding the tired priests were struggling for their own spot on the altar to send their own prayers to the innundated gods. _That's if the Nine even exist,_ Turner admitted. They hadn't helped anybody in their times of need over the past few months. _Perhaps they've gone on holiday..._

When he was satisfied that he could not see the vampire anywhere he sighed heavily and began to descend the stairs to the crypt casually so as not to draw undue attention to himself as he went. As he walked he was struck by an amusing image of himself tumbling down for apparently no reason. _Those days are over_, he assured himself with a slight smirk, though he knew he was wrong. Now he was not just clumsy, he was _skillfully _clumsy.

The doors to both the crypt and the Chapel Hall were locked and Turner resisted the urge to kick the wood in frustration, but then everyone would question his motives and recognise him as their saviour. He thought about his next course of action carefully despite lacking the information as to just which area the Altmer might have entered. His mind had settled on the crypt; the crypt was dark, isolated and rarely visited even by the priests who lived in the chapel: the perfect hiding place. The lock didn't look forced, but what thief would rob a crypt, and what Altmeri mage vampire would feel the need to pick it with magicka swirling at their every command?

The Argonian cursed under his breath. This was going to be a long day.

xxx

Hiding in the crypt had not been a great idea, Seanturco saw that now.

He had forced the lock using magic and snuck inside, locking it behind him to find himself face to face with rather angry ghosts who had taken exception to the disturbance of their resting places. Bolts of lightning has sent them back to the Void quickly, leaving behind steaming piles of ectoplasm as the only clue that they had ever been there at all.

After that brief moment there was really nothing for the vampire to do except curl up in a corner and wait for the sun to go back down. He expected that the Argonian and the Dunmer, having spoken with the count, would have left the city to go about their assassin tasks, whatever they were.

When he heard someone trying the door he almost jumped out of his skin with fright; if somebody found a vampire in the chapel undercroft they'd have a heart attack, vampire hunters would be called in to Skingrad and he would be put to death. The thumping of the door persisted for about five minutes before dying away to silence again and the Altmer sighed in relief, creeping closer to the doorway in case he could possibly catch a glimpse of the person on the other side.

If someone had invented a spell that allowed him to see through walls he hadn't heard of it yet and thus he had to resort to more crude methods such as peering through a keyhole which was small and grimy to the extent that it barely gave any indication that there even was a room on the other side, let alone an image of a person inside.

For a moment he considered opening the door and summoning the most powerful daedra he could muster but he dismissed this plan as too extravagant and too messy if anything were to go wrong. He didn't know what he'd do if he saw someone's blood on the floor before him.

A detect life spell told him that the person was still on the other side of the door, something which worried the vampire no end. They appeared to be leaning against the wall with their arms folded in frustration, but the spell was not of a high enough magnitude to give any more details except the possibility that it was an Argonian.

Seanturco paused. "An Argonian?" he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse and almost silent. He dismissed the idea quickly. "They will have departed without me." However after half an hour the figure slumped to the floor as if bored of standing and the vampire had a rethink on his previous statement. The figure rose again about a minute later and crossed to the door, crouching down and trying to look through the same grimy keyhole that the Altmer had inspected before, then the sound of scraping echoed from the halls of the crypt eerily followed by the sound of snapping, a muffled curse and somebody kicking the door out of frustration.

Overhead his vampiric hearing could still pick out the sounds of clammering and raised voices as people continued to attempt to receive some kind of divine blessing for their good fortune, so whoever was so intent on entering this crypt was pretty determined about it.

In a split second decision the mage cast an unlock spell on the wooden door before casting the strongest chameleon enchantment he could muster on himself. He tiptoed closer to the door anxiously and pulled it open just a crack, but enough to get the attention of the stranger outside. The figure moved immediately, springing from his exasperated position and tripping over his own feet as he made his way towards the now open crypt. He crashed into the wood with a thud and sent the vampire behind sprawling backwards unceremoniously. Seanturco was glad he could remain unseen at such an embarrassing moment in his life.

The Argonian - for his race was obvious now they were on the same side of the door - stood and brushed himself off, silhoueted by the frame of light that hovered behind him. He looked young judging by the vaguely green tinge to his scales, but his attire betrayed his true identity. He wore black leather armour that was adourned with buckles and straps and innumerable pockets that could fit an entire house worth of equipment in them if needs be, and he also wore a black hood that fell over his face to plunge it even further into shadow. The only part of him that was illuminated was a patch of scales on his neck that had been revealed as he fell to the dusty ground. On his shoulder a bow was slung with a quiver of arrows, the number of which seemed horrifically depleted, and at his left hip rested a daedric longsword which was so heavy that he seemed to be leaning to one side just to cope with the extra weight.

The Altmer snuck around his welcome visitor and closed the door firmly, still invisible to the naked eye but decidedly more relaxed than before. The Argonian jumped as the wooden door seemed to shut itself behind him, then he realised what had been so obvious from before.

He was not alone.

"I knew I might find you here," he whispered quietly, ashamed that he merely presumed he were speaking to the right person instead of finding out definitively.

Seanturco muttered a brief dispel enchantment before replying in a hoarse voice: "I was not expecting you to return for me."

The assassin inspected the still steaming piles of ectoplasm littering the crypt floor and fought back a smile. "Of course I did," he replied, knowing that he now seemed to be quoting some infamous love story that he old mentor Quill-Weave so loved to force him to read. "Hassildor forbade me to leave a _vampire_ in his city, didn't he?"

The vampire rolled his red eyes and then glared at the floor harshly. "Nice to know that I concern you so greatly," he snapped back, allowing the ground to receive his full fury instead of the mortal before him. The mortal would bleed, and he couldn't have that. Floors didn't bleed.

"I owe you a vote of thanks," the Argonian said, unfazed. "You effectively saved Skingrad with your magic."

The Altmer shook his head gravely. "The people of Skingrad would not be rejoicing if they knew that they had been saved by someone like me. You are their hero; you, and the Hero of Kvatch. I am nobody. I am a mage without a face. I am a vampire. I am a monster. Insignificant, hated, feared. I did my bit, yes, but I never saved the city. People will not remember my name."

"Then you are an unsung hero." The reply came quickly without a thought and red eyes raised from the cold stone floor to meet glistening golden ones. "You saved my life. I wouldn't have left you behind. I should say that I owe you my life, but at the moment I believe I owe it to rather more people than I ought to."

Seanturco faked a small smile despite the fact that his face was almost entirely shrouded in shadow by his hood. "Unsung hero or not, I am still a monster," he said simply in a tone that implied that he was to have the last word on the subject regardless of what the other thought.

Then an awkwardly eerie silence fell over the pair.

xxx

Shadowmere rode full pelt from the moment his rider hoisted herself onto his muscular back until the very instant that she commanded him stop. The horse was glad that this time there were no interuptions to their flight; he had enjoyed the battle no end for he thought nothing of killing and many men as well as daedra had fallen to his immense power, but nothing quite compared to a long run through the wilderness with a child of Sithis.

Now the creature stood in the stables at Bruma and other horses cowered in fear in the corner as red eyes blazed in warning to any attackers. Shadowmere loved the overwhelming presence of foreboding he created in any atmosphere.

His latest rider had left him here as she entered the city, presumably in search of her next mark, or to persue some hobby that she had taken up while in the last place he had taken her to.

This Dunmer rider was a strange one as well; her emotions were conflicted in so many ways that even a being of Shadowmere's weighty knowledge had some difficulty in placing just exactly what she was feeling at that moment. She was the type who would feel love and hate in equal quantities and at the same time, who could feel happy and sad but portray neither. She was an actress for sure. All good assassins had to act to some degree, that was what made them so good at evading attention: hiding in plain sight and adopting the appropriate persona - a neighbour, a traveller, a _shadow._

His last rider had been a fan of adopting the role of shadow. The man was an Imperial but of Breton blood; tainted. He had fit in in neither society and killed for the pleasure of revenge at first, and for the pleasure of blood once the need for revenge was satiated. _That_ rider was the archetypal assassin: silent, deadly, swift, distanced, _shadow_.

This rider? Emotional and emotionless, bloodthirsty and squeamish, brave and cowardly, excellent and terrible. She was a cup that was neither half full nor half empty, merely a cup of water that reached a halfway line. She swung on a thread that was frayed, like a broken pendulum in a clock bearing the wrong time, her emotions were as unpredictable as the weather or the middle names of every Redguard warrior born under the sign of the Serpent. In a word she was _skewed_, she was _odd_, she was _different_, but she was exceedingly good at it.

Besides, she allowed her horse to engage in his favourite pasttimes, so he was not about to complain.

xxx

Bruma was no colder than usual, but the snow fell more thickly than it had been known to over the last week. Already over an inch covered the ground and the people had resorted to staying within their houses to avoid being trapped outside by the snowfall.

The Dunmer in black armour stood out a mile away against the stark white city, snowflakes settling on her hood and shoulders like icing on a cake. She marched on, ignoring the numbness of her fingers and yet refusing to cast a heat charm that would protect her from this embarrassing situation.

"I don't need magic to sustain me," she muttered as she trudged through the snow, fighting back a shiver and clenching her fists as tightly as her teeth to avoid shaking. That was something she'd been determined on since she was born: don't become dependent on magic; it was a simple prospect too, a weakness as it were. For her, the thoroughbred Telvanni, magic was merely a backup plan.

By now she knew her way around Bruma quite well, even in the snow when visibility was verging on zero and her mind was numbed with the cold. She found the home of her target easily, resolving to take care of her Dark Brotherhood business before gallivanting across Cyrodiil on a quest from His Highness the Royal Emperor 'Brother Martin'.

The guards were inside because of the weather, warming themselves in front of a large welcoming fire no doubt, but then again Idari noted that she had been told in her contract that this mark had bribed the guards that they might not interfere if a fight were to spill out into the streets, so it was no real advantage or setback either way.

She was inside his house in an instant, the lock presenting no real challenge to the skilled assassin and thief who wished to pass it. Everything inside it seemed plain and regular, nothing like what she had planned to see. The contract had said that he was a nobleman who had jilted his bride and now her family wanted revenge. This house didn't seem very... noble.

On instinct she cast a weak detect life spell before discerning that the place appeared to be empty. Raising an eyebrow in surprise she began to search the house, discontented at her findings. There were piles of cloth and books on the lore of Cyrodiil as were found in every single other house she's ever broken into, even the poorest of the poor.

With a sigh she reached into a pocket of her armour and brought out the parchment, reading it quickly. "J'Ghasta," she breathed, tapping her foot impatiently on the wooden floor. "Nobleman, hand to hand fighter... So where is he?"

She trekked down the stairs lightly, astonished to find yet more of the same. Plain hunks of bread and lumps of cheese lay on a wooden table with a single chair beside it, vegetables in a bowl nearby, and more books, average books that paupers read like 'Guide to Bruma' by Alessia Ottus and other such drivel. Idari cursed under her breath, eyes scanning the surroundings for any clue to the location of the owner and seeing nothing but a pile of cloth in one corner and a keg of ale in the other.

The Dunmer approached the keg silently. "Perhaps this opens some kind of secret passageway to nobleland," she mused aloud, satisfied that there was nobody here to hear her. Instead of looking for some method of opening it she merely drew a dagger and thrust the blade into a gap between the main body of the barrel and it's lid, glad that no liquid began to pour out as she did so.

She manoeuvred the dagger about the rim of the keg until she heard a satisfying clunk and the lid separated cleanly from the rest, which she then lowered to the ground carefully. Inside, she was shocked to realise, was no secret passage, nor secret-passage-opening-device, but instead an old black robe and hood.

"Noble my arse," the assassin growled, reaching inside and grabbing the offending articles of clothing roughly. After tossing them aside she inspected the remaining contents of the keg and was annoyed to find it completely empty. She spun about to inspect the room more closely. "There _must_ be something I'm missing..." she said to herself quietly, and at once her eyes locked on the piles of cloth in the corner which had been disturbed when she had thrown the robes to reveal the corner of a trapdoor. "How in the world does one cover a trapdoor from within?" the Dunmer thought out loud as she moved the remaining cloth to one side.

She cast a silence spell on the hinges before pulling it open, relying on the fact that she might maintain a certain element of surprise if she descended that way. For one who was determined to be independent of magic, she seemed to use it far more than was absolutely necessary.

Then, whispering a brief chameleon spell, she dropped inside.

* * *

_Author Note: This took AGES, and I don't care what any of you say. This was due to a variety of factors: I started a new story (not fanfiction), I had writers block, I went to Swanage on a geography trip - fun fun fun. Other than that, I haven't checked this chapter through since this morning I am tired as hell, so any nitpicking of mistakes will be welcomed, and I have to go to maths in a minute so author note will be cut short._

_Thanks to Rickard Steiner and Camilla Richard (!) when they get this far in the story, and all the other people who reviewed, like DualKatanas and Commentaholic and Nachtrae who are all great._

_Toodle pip._


	21. Broken Vows

_Random Point: See if you can spot the 300 quote in this chapter. I watched the film while writing it so I figured it would creep it's way in somehow._

_Observation: Since everyone is making such a fuss about their hit counts, I thought I'd point out some of mine, especially since my story is longer. Therefore, take note, this is what your story shall become. I have just over 2000 hits, almost 800 of which are on the first chapter compared to only 200 on chapter 2 - almost half my hits are in the 1st two chapters. Chapter 20 has a measly 20 hits, 19 has over 50. So, all you people pointing them out, don't feel hard done by, in 500 hits time this will be my most popular story!_

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Chapter 21

The Khajiit was boxing in the concealed room within his house when the assassin came calling. She peered around the doorway while shrouded with a chameleon charm to catch sight of him throwing deadly-looking punches at a training dummy while dressed only in a pair of leather trousers and wearing some leather gauntlets.

A smile graced her thin blue lips as she reached into her black armour and silently pulled out a silver dagger inlayed with obsidian and tapered into a deadly point; it had been a gift when she had first entered the Brotherhood, her Blade of Woe.

She crept behind her mark as he landed a fierce right hook on the training stand which appeared to groan with the strain of remaining in one piece and rocked away from the blow in protest. The Dunmer had her knife to his throat in an instant, enjoying the way in which J'Ghasta's body stiffened upon feeling the sharp object against it and unconcerned that her chameleon spell wore off.

"Why do you visit me?" the boxer asked simply, his voice portraying no emotion.

Idari grinned beneath her hood. Though the Khajiit was considerably taller than her she had the obvious advantage of holding the dagger and was thus in complete control, or so she thought. "Sithis wants your soul," she whispered into a furry ear, using her acting skills to mask her thick Morrowind accent as she spoke.

"Sithis?" her target asked in obvious surprise, the first telltale signs of anger beginning to amass in his voice. "What is this treachery?"

_Treachery?_ The concept was odd and impossible but it made the Dunmer pause a moment long enough for an elbow to make contact with her stomach and a paw to grab her wrist and disarm her. Idari roared in frustration, her gut throbbing painfully as the Khajiit braced up to throw another punch. She drew a silver shortsword instinctively, holding it high despite the almost crippling pain, and awaited his first move.

J'Ghasta threw a punch skillfully and the assassin only just managed to avoid it crashing into her neck and almost certainly breaking it. She brought her sword up in defence and slashed back at the boxer with coordinated precision, drawing a little blood from his left bicep that dripped down onto the hard floor unceremoniously.

"Who sent you here assassin?" the Khajiit demanded as his right hook missed her by a fraction of an inch.

"I serve only Sithis," she growled in reply, slipping back into her heavy accent during the heat of battle. This was by far among the toughest of opponents she had faced thus far. Then she loosed a powerful bolt of electricity through his bare chest.

The target's body spasmed involuntarily in protest to the magic coursing through it but shockingly he seemed to make an almost immediate recovery, leaping back up to throw another punch. This jab had less power to it and was delivered at a slow enough pace for the Dark Elf to step out of the way before it made contact with her.

"You are a liar ashlander," J'Ghasta spat, swinging his left fist in her direction before she had a chance to counterattack. "You are a traitor."

Idari gritted her teeth to hold back the anger and slashed at him viciously, causing only minimal damage as he blocked her attacks with his gauntleted fists. His words fell on deaf ears from that point, she took particular exception to being called a traitor no matter what the circumstances were, even if the weight of evidence seemed to be drawing the intelligent part of her brain to reach the conclusion that something was very wrong here.

"I do not take kindly to insults."

Another shock spell zapped from her left hand as she spoke, her right bringing up her sword to slice upwards into his gut as he was temporarily immobilised. "Traitor," the Khajiit whispered as she twisted the sword sadistically to cause him as much pain as possible before the end. He brought up a fist resiliantly and she withdrew her blade in a smooth motion, slicing through his arm until she felt the familiar feeling of metal striking bone.

"Sithis take you," the Dunmer growled at him, using her bloody sword to finish the job that she had started and slitting his throat. His body crumpled into a heap on the floor and she spat on it, aiming a kick at his head before the whole area became too bloodstained for her liking.

Then she retrieved her Blade of Woe from the floor before it became enveloped in the expanding pool on the floor. She didn't sheathe her sword just yet since it was dripping with crimson blood and instead carried it with her out of the secret room beneath the dead Khajiit's house. Looking around, she wiped her sword clean with the black robes that she had thrown across the room, surprised when something hit the floor as she picked them up again.

It was a book, something that she had not previously noticed and yet something she knew she would recognise anywhere. She had a copy of it herself: _The Five Tenets_. Her initial reaction was one of subdued shock followed by confusion and then ultimately understanding.

"I'm exempted from the tenets," she reminded herself aloud. "Lucien obviously had some reason to make me take care of this liability and I carried out his orders to the letter. I am in no position to be questioning my Speaker." After that she thought nothing more on the subject; in her mind the robes were merely there to conceal the book, something which they seemed to have done well.

It simply never occured to her that a darker destiny was approaching fast.

xxx

The silence was long and enduring, broken some hours later by the obvious and inevitable question of: "So what do we do now then?"

In truth neither the Altmer nor the Argonian had any idea what they ought to be striving to achieve while they sat in the crypt surrounded by mounds of ectoplasm and ancestral bones.

"Wait 'til nightfall," was the easiest answer that they could offer, but it was barely midday and the pair were growing bored already, particularly the Argonian who had no reason to be hiding in the dark anyway.

"Risk it?" Turner suggested unhelpfully. The vampire rejected this idea with little thought at all for he had already experienced the discomfort of being out during sunlight, and that was when the sun was still rising several hours earlier.

Seanturco's own idea was decidedly more morbid. "Lure one of the townsfolk down here, drink their blood and then make it look like an assassination." He didn't mean a word of it literally, he merely wished to make a valid suggestion before he died of boredom.

"I don't think that's a great idea..."

The Altmer shook his head. "No, I didn't either," he chuckled softly. "Besides the only person up there who might be worthy of me was some stuck up Breton. I can't imagine Breton would taste very nice..."

"'Worthy of you'?"

"I'm an Altmer," the vampire shrugged. "It's a social preconception that we think ourselves above others. That's why the Imperials call us '_High Elves_'."

"I guess we're stuck here then."

"_You're_ not."

"I'll get mobbed if I go up there and someone sees me," Turner smirked. "Nobody's ever _wanted_ to speak with me before."

Seanturco sat on the stone floor, his back against a pillar that stretched from ceiling to floor and his arms resting gently on his knees. "If you insist on staying here then I suggest you start being honest with me. I usually make a point of knowing who I'm working with."

"Honest?" the Argonian replied, obviously surprised. "There's nothing to say."

"I don't even think that the Hero of Kvatch knows enough about you, so you're obviously lying. You don't have to help me, you don't have to stay, but if you do then I intend to know the truth. For starters your name is obviously made up, other than that... you've kept everyone in the dark."

"Maybe that's the way I like to keep people," Turner replied flatly. "My name is Turner. There is nothing more for me to tell you." Then he sat on the step leading into the crypt from the door and averted his eyes to the ground.

The High Elf continued to press the point. "I have never seen an Argonian with golden eyes before..." he observed. "Perhaps an unusual family trait?"

The assassin glared at him angrily. "And I have never seen a High Elf with red eyes before," he snapped violently. "There is no explanation as to why Argonians usually have bronze eyes, as there is no reason for Dunmer to have red ones, but that does not mean that exceptions like me are unusual or different or..." His voice tapered out to nothingness and he sighed heavily. "I don't know the reason."

Seanturco smiled weakly. "My eyes are not naturally red," he replied with surprising humility. "But it is natural for you to come back with that insult. I apologise for my impertinance, it was out of place and I regret it profusely. Forgive me?"

Turner nodded. "In these dark times we need allies rather than more enemies. At nightfall I'll retrieve my horse and we'll ride to Vahtacen, then we can find this witch and be done with this stupid business of finding a cure, then... Talos knows."

"My guild needs me. The necromancers... Let's just say, the threat is pretty big at the moment so after this I have to go back," the vampire shrugged in reply. "What will you do?"

The Argonian thought for a moment. "The Hero of Kvatch does not need me, but I need her or I'll be useless forever. She shut the gate, I would've died in there if it weren't for her..." Then he sighed heavily. "I'll answer you five questions if you promise not to pry any further into my answers, then you must extend me the same courtesy."

The High Elf was slightly taken aback by this proposal but nonetheless recovered swiftly. "That is perfectly reasonable," he replied, though he had been willing to let the entire episode slide completely. "My first question: how old are you?"

"I was born in 3E414, you can work it out from there," Turner said simply, staring into the ground as he spoke.

"Your parents...?"

"Slaves." Came the reply before the question was even finished. "I don't know who they were, not for definite. They're dead now, almost certainly."

"Your sign?"

Turner cocked his head to one side and gazed at the vampire for a minute or so. "My sign? My birthsign. I don't know precisely. I think it was the Shadow."

Seanturco smirked. "You sound like the Nerevarine; uncertain day, uncertain parents. Let's just hope that that Nord woman got rid of Dagoth Ur once and for all... OK then, what is your profession?"

"That's your fourth question, you know," the Argonian pointed out, his head in his hands now. "To be perfectly honest I've never had one for longer than a year. I've been a sailor, a bard, a beggar, a mage, a manservant, an assassin. Don't hold the assassin against me though, it wasn't my choice."

"How did you come to be associated with the Hero of Kvatch?" the vampire asked, finally airing a question that had been puzzling him for quite some time. "You're complete opposites. She claims she listens to no-one and yet she listens to you."

The assassin considered this claim carefully. "To be honest, I shouldn't be associated with her," he said slowly, thinking about every word that left his mouth. "I should be dead. She should have killed me. I... killed someone, by accident, when she tried to stab me and then... we've been together since then. Our family... she killed them, because she had to, and I was the only one left, and I helped her, and since then... She treats me like dirt but she wouldn't abandon me, she has a strong sense of honour but a clouded sense of right and wrong... I don't think she's had a very good upbringing; better than mine, obviously, but not great. I wouldn't call us friends... acquaintances maybe."

"The Hero of Kvatch supposedly appeared in the Emperor's dreams and he entrusted her a quest before he was killed. I don't know why a Emperor, facing assassination, would trust an assassin like her. It seems... almost irrational," Seanturco viewed his opinion openly, taking care not to phrase it as though he were asking a further question.

"Uriel Septim was a great man," Turner replied stonily. "He must have seen something in her that we mere mortals cannot. It's the Dragonblood. His son will be a great man as well, after this crisis is over. The Dunmer will fix it, she knows how and she isn't the type to trust others, even me, but if the Emperor trusted her... I think we should too. Your turn to answer my questions now, I think."

The Altmer leant back against the wall into a more upright position in readiness for the questions. "That is a fair observation," he said slowly, watching the Argonian's face for traces of emotions that remained hidden and listening closely to his heartbeat for a sign of discomfort.

"I suppose I should start where you did: your age?"

"Older than you, Argonian," he said with an additional smirk. "I was born in 3E406 in Morning Star under the sign of the Ritual. We Altmer take great pride in knowing our birthsigns well."

"Who are your parents?"

Seanturco glanced at the ground momentarily before raising his gaze to focus on the Argonian once again. "My parents were not important people in Altmeri society. They lived in Lillandril and I was their third child. Did you know that nine in every ten Altmer children never reach the age of one because their parents strive for perfection and cull anything less. That's why we're a dying race. They were both low ranking mages. There's only so much you can learn from the Crystal Tower so I came here to further my magic studies... It appears to have been a bit of a mistake on my part."

"What were you like, you know, before you turned?"

"That's a deep question," the High Elf smirked. "I was a typical Altmer, tall, cultured, condescending. I should like to think that these experiences shall change me for the better, but I'm not so sure that they will. I can't change my nature."

There was silence. The clamour upstairs seemed to have died down as well and thus the silence was awkward and seemed to rebound off the stone walls just to remind them of its presence.

"I shall reserve my last two questions for another time," the assassin spoke stiffly. "I don't know what part of nature you have observed in your time, but I assure you this: change is nature; if you claim not to be able to change it then I suggest you think slightly harder about what you were before you turned and reconsider your position. If one cannot change nature then how do you propose we change you back?"

xxx

The snow persisted to the extent that the Dunmeri assassin feared she might be trapped in her target's house until the weather decided to take a break. Then she found herself preparing to leave.

She descended again to the lower floor of J'Ghasta's house to retrieve the black robes that she had wiped with his blood and pulled them on hesitantly, sure that they would provide some protection from the cold at least.

_These look like the robes of the Black Hand_, her mind remarked to her as she stared down at herself in the unfamiliar clothing for the umpteenth time. Then her mind added: _Of course, it is likely that they are merely just black robes. What use would the Black Hand have wearing robes that were obvious in a crowd? Besides, _she thought,_ the only member of the Black Hand I've ever met is Lucien and for all I know he might be being different just for the sake of it._

Then she stole into the snow, interrupting her own chain of thought as the cold bit into her skin and the wind lashed into her face angrily. She left her horse in the shelter of the stables and merely ran through the snow as best she could while casting the occasional heating charm to keep from turning into a lump of ice herself.

Though the snow had merely covered the slippery track up to Cloud Ruler Temple it had actually been made easier to walk on by the extra material available to use as a foothold. Unsurprisingly the Blades were gone from their guardposts, fled out of the weather because they knew all too well that any potential threat wouldn't be stupid enough to attack at this time anyway. The weather was just too treacherous.

The gates were shut and impossible to open due to the weight of snow on either side, but the now irate Dunmer simply levitated over the wall instead of staying to dwell upon such trivial matters as a door holding her back.

The Blades leapt in shock when the doors flew open in the middle of the snowstorm to reveal a figure in long robes in silhouette. A few reached for their swords suspecting the Mythic Dawn and those that didn't remained on high alert.

"Where is Martin?" the figure demanded angrily, further confirming the worst suspicions of the soliders around her.

"Peace men," a soldier at the back commanded with an air of authority above the others in the room, raising a hand to symbolise a cease in their actions. He had recognised her accent easily. "It is the Hero of Kvatch."

"Captain, where is Martin?" the Hero demanded again, anger rising with every word.

Captain Steffan nodded. "He's in his quarters. Cyrus will take you," he said, gesturing to a Redguard Blade to his left. "Please be sure to make your presence known to Jauffre when you get up there. He doesn't like unsanctioned visits to the Emperor under any circumstances, but I'm sure he shall provide _you_ permission."

"He'd better," the Hero growled, shooting a glare at the Imperial before her. "I did not come all the way here in a snowstorm to be turned away by some foolish Breton who ought to be taken down a peg or two at the first opportunity. Well what are you waiting for?" she snapped at the Redguard that Steffan had indicated. The Blade jumped to attention instinctively and began leading her towards the door. "And I hope for all our sakes that leaving this place unguarded because of a little snow is the right decision to make." She left the Captain considering her words and followed the Blade out of the room.

She had been to Martin's quarters before and this time was different. Cyrus led her up the wooden walkway at a pace that she considered to be far too slow and then paused to clear her admission with Jauffre. By the time he had agreed she had already forced her own way inside.

Martin was pouring over a book that was laid out flat on a desk by the light of a small candle while surrounded by a host of other books piled in stacks around him. Baurus sat nearby, rubbing his eyes with weariness but still more alert than most of the Blades who were huddled from the weather downstairs.

The Redguard frowned when he saw the robed figure in the doorway, even though he could tell exactly who she was. "You took your time," he said in a low voice, but still just loud enough to draw a flinch from the Emperor as his attention was pulled back to reality.

The assassin allowed this comment. "An Oblivion Gate opened outside Skingrad," he explained briefly. "I was in no position to just leave it. My departure was delayed by perhaps a day or two." Though she still would not bring herself to stoop to a simple 'sorry'.

"Greetings Champion," the Imperial man said quietly, his voice laiden with fatigue and stress almost beyond comparison. The large black rings that had formed beneath his eyes were further evidence of this fact. "I have managed to decipher part of the text encoded in the Mysterium Xarxes..."

"Go on..." she bade him as he paused for breath. Both the men in the room knew by now that she was an extraordinarily impatient woman.

"It seems that I need four items to open a portal to Paradise, and so far I have only managed to figure out one. I require an artifact of daedric origin. It doesn't seem to matter which daedra you retrieve one from, but the nearest one to Cloud Ruler Temple is the shrine of Azura..."

"Azura?" the Dunmer replied cynically, raising an eyebrow. "I will not be associated with Azura," she continued after a pause. "Do you know the location of the shrine of Mephala?"

"Why Mephala?" Baurus asked inquistively almost immediately.

Martin answered him. "The Morag Tong have strong links with Mephala; some say that their Night Mother _is_ Mephala, but there is nothing definitive to comfirm this. I believe the shrine is in the Great Forest, east of the Silver Road and north of the Red Ring Road, but it is impossible for me to give you a more accurate description... You said an Oblivion Gate opened at Skingrad," he added with fear in his intense blue eyes. "Did you prevent a similar fate to Kvatch befalling them?"

Idari nodded. "The gate has been shut. I cannot say that they will be safe; you know as well as anyone that more than one gate opened to destroy Kvatch and chances are that this could happen anywhere at any time. One day it will merely happen in a place where I am not present. It would be better for me to teach other people the method of closing the gates, however that would take time which I do not have. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?"

The Imperial considered this question, sincerely wondering whether he wanted to be the bearer of bad news or not. In the end he decided to get it over with. "Are you aware that the Red Moutain has erupted?" he asked quietly, watching her reaction closely.

At first she did nothing, remaining in the same upright position as she had been prior to the question. "Red Mountain?" she asked, seeking clarification. "What of Morrowind?"

Martin's eyes suddenly found the floor, dreading what he might tell her next. "News is that most of the province has been destroyed, made uninhabitable. Only Solstheim and southern Morrowind remain."

"Sadrith Mora?" she demanded, her voice unwavering but her eyes burning.

"It's... uncertain..."

"Then I must go home," she announced, turning to leave. "If there is a chance that my family might be alive then I must abandon this province and damn the consequences."

"You'll do no such thing," a Breton voice at the door said authoratively before Jauffre stepped fully into view. "I will dispatch Blades to retrieve your parents but you have no choice but to stay here."

"My brother!" she shouted, her voice becoming more agitated. "I need to find my brother."

Jauffre glanced at Martin and Baurus briefly before his eyes returned to her. "Tell me where to search and I shall send soldiers," he told her calmly.

"You can't!" By now she appeared to be on the verge of tears. "He's... You just can't!"

The Breton's eyes narrowed. "Very well Dunmer, tell me a region and I shall tell you his chances of survival."

"West Gash," she replied, her voice quievering as she bit back tears. Any ignorance she had claimed over her younger brother's location had always been faked; she knew precisely where he was.

"Then it is unlikely," Jauffre told her solemnly. "Unless he was on the very western coastline. Could you be more specific?"

"Near Khuul, north of Gnisis."

"I have not yet heard news from Fort Darius. Sadrith Mora may have been spared by being an island, however it is decidedly hit and miss with Gnisis. I will send men to Gnisis, but if you cannot be more specific then they cannot search for your brother; I will not risk the lives of my men on a wild goose chase."

The assassin breathed heavily as if to calm her nerves before speaking. "You cannot send men to search for my brother; it would be foolish at best and idiotic at most."

"Then how do you expect to find your brother?" the Grandmaster demanded, the first tinges of anger in his tone.

"Friar Jauffre," she pointed out, addressing him directly, her face set like stone. "You cannot expect me to believe that you would risk sending your men into a hive of vampires."

* * *

_Author Note: Yeah, I know, 't ain't great, is it? It was taking me bloody ages, I had no inspiration and I went with the first idea that hit me. The title is dreadfully ironic at this stage in the story; it's the name of the quest in this chapter sure, but Idari and Turner have both made a vow at some point in their lives to never speak of their pasts and both just broken them._

_Why did this take me so long? Because I was reading Brothers in Arms, that's why. I Live Preview-ed every single chapter from beginning to end, just to see how well it flowed. To be honest I noticed some hideous grammar and some awful spelling but it wasn't as bad as other things I've written in the past. In fact I'm rather proud of it to tell the truth. I reckon it deserves its 60-odd reviews whereas The Seventh Son does NOT deserve its 90 one bit. It's terrible. 'Nuff said._

_Oh yeah, and I believe that I accidentally quoted two films in this chapter. If you didn't notice fine, if you did then get over it. Quotes are not plagerism. If you took the time to work out Turner and Seanturco's ages - the story is set in 3E433 if you didn't know - then I also did not plagerise that. I'll have you know I wrote out how old all my characters were before I even started the story, so if you wanna go accuse me of plagerising that you can go and - Yeah. Sorry, angry moment. Anyway, hope you liked it. Review._


	22. Bleaker's Way

_70! Whoop!_

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Chapter 22

It was bizarre how three grown men could be silenced so readily by three simple words. Bards, had they been present, would be singing about it for centuries if they found out, if they knew.

The Hero of Kvatch. _A hive of vampires._

She gazed around, her expression set like concrete and two hoods over her face to hide her burning eyes. She wasn't shaking now; she had been, for a minute or so, barely visible beneath the black robes that were almost too large for her when she knew that nobody would see her display. She wanted to run and run and run and find her way all the way back to Morrowind and to Vvardenfell and to Gnisis and to Reron, but the Breton blocked the doorway and after him the Blades and after them... every person in Cyrodiil.

Jauffre stared at her for a long time, his mind attempting to digest just exactly what she had told him so suddenly. Martin looked everywhere but at her, he looked to his Grandmaster and to his Redguard Blade before returning to stare at his research, but none of the information went into his brain; his mind was elsewhere. Baurus looked nowhere; the floor was his companion while to silence endured.

The Grandmaster broke it. "Your brother is a vampire?" he asked in a low, strained voice. The Hero nodded. "Then what do you propose?"

"If he is alive then I should be the one to find him. He would attack anyone that he didn't know. He is alive, he has to be alive. He and I are like twins; we're not twins, I'm a year older, but we're as close as twins are. I would know if he was dead. You _have_ to grant me leave to find him. I will return..."

"You _won't _return," Jauffre replied. "Dagon will _not_ wait for us to find another capable of replacing you. As hard as it is for me to say, Tamriel _needs_ you and no-one else. Sacrifices must be made, even if your brother is one of them."

Her red eyes flashed with anger and her gloved fingers found the hilt of her sword. "I am not willing to make that bargain," she declared, her sword leaving its scabbard.

"Don't be a fool, girl, you know you cannot fight your way out of here," the Breton pointed out in all honesty, his own dai-katana drawn in readiness.

"I will go," said Baurus almost instinctively, and immediately three pairs of eyes became fixed on him in shock.

"What are you suggesting?" the Grandmaster demanded, echoing the thoughts of every other person in the room.

"I will find her brother. Find me a cure for vampirism and I'll leave at the first opportunity... Best make it two cures, in case I..." his voice tapered off into silence.

"Why?" Idari asked in surprise. "I have done nothing but hinder your duty so far."

"The Emperor saw something in you, trusted you. We cannot lose you on some quest to find your brother. Jauffre will not let you go because we need you, and you will not stay of your own accord." He paused a moment before repeating the words of his Grandmaster. "Sacrifices must be made."

"You are a noble man Baurus," Martin replied, speaking for the first time since the revelation. "The Nine were right to spare you where others fell. If you make it back I'll see you knighted. A cure for vampirism will be hard to come by, I have not heard of one being in existence..."

"Turner is finding one," Idari said immediately. "He will come here when he has one. Apparently some witch near Cheydinhal knows how to brew a potion that will cure the disease. I will stay... out of necessity. As soon as we have relit the Dragonfires I seek my leave to be gone from this province."

Martin spoke before Jauffre had a chance to make a remark. "I could think of no more fitting reward for a hero. The gods really were smiling upon us when they sent you to us, perhaps they are smiling now and have spared your brother."

"I do not believe in the gods."

"You do not need to," the ex-priest replied. "It seems that evidently the gods believe in you instead."

xxx

Dusk came. It was inevitable that dusk would come, but it did not speed up the time that it took the sun to sink beneath the horizon however much either of them wanted it.

Conversation had been sparse after the questions so when darkness finally fell they both found it strangely refreshing.

The unfortunate priests had gone home and with them every single citizen with either a strong or non-existant claim to bothering the gods for their own devices. It seemed strange that every single resident had left within such a short space of time, but presumably the priests had ushered them out.

Turner remembered well how strangely frosty priests could be when it came down to it.

"Have you ever wondered why the gods choose to do things this way?" Seanturco asked in a low voice as they stepped out into the darkness.

There was silence. For a few agonising moments only the sound of two sets of feet making their way through the streets could be heard. "I don't think the gods exist," the Argonian replied eventually. "If they did then there wouldn't be all the death and destruction and Oblivion would not be trying to invade us."

"But the gods sent us a hero..."

Turner shook his head. "The gods sent us a neurotic murderer. We need her, yes, but she's not your stereotypical hero. Daedric Lords exist, obviously, but they didn't - and wouldn't - send us a hero. I think people who believe in the gods have a little too much faith. Faith gets you nowhere."

"You speak from experience?" They had reached the stables by now; the guards were too busy searching through the wreckage of a house that had collapsed in the aftermath of a fire there to notice the two figures in dark robes slipping out.

The Argonian mounted his horse before answering. "Let's just say that the gods and I have... a history. I was a beggar. In Bruma. It was cold, I... The priests sent me away. I almost died. I thought that maybe the benevolent gods might help me in my time of need but... they abandoned me."

"You survived, didn't you? They helped you. Look at you today, you aren't a beggar anymore; you're a hero, you saved a town from Mehrunes Dagon! That's got to count for something."

"Not divine intervention."

They started to ride; well, Turner started to ride while the vampire began to jog alongside. It was a simple task for someone with the speed of the undead and the long legs of an Altmer. They would not make much progress to their destination tonight, but they had every intention of putting some distance between them and Skingrad before the sun came up.

"Travelling at night is not very convenient, is it?" asked the High Elf as he almost stumbled in the dark for the third time despite his superior vision.

"Only you can put an end to this predicament," Turner replied. His horse was having no difficulty negotiating the roads in the dark, but his lessened field of vision made him feel terribly exposed. "Can't you cast Night Eye? I thought all vampires could."

"I take it you are not aware how much of a pain it is to cast a constant effect spell for any length of time. You aren't the only one who suffered while you were in that Oblivion gate you know," the vampire retorted sourly. "If we find a suitable bandit camp I shall see to it whether or not I can take some blood..."

"This would be so much easier if you weren't so fussy..." Turner mumbled under his breath, forgetting that vampires had superior enough hearing to hear every word.

Seanturco scoffed indignantly. "Fussy? I am _not_ fussy, I am merely..." He paused to select the right word. When he couldn't find one he frowned, almost tripping over a log on the side of the road. "Fussy is not the right word to describe it."

"Altmer, that's the right word," the Argonian replied coldly.

"I do not fire racial stereotypes at you!"

"_Are_ there racial stereotypes for Argonians?" Then he chuckled. "I'd like to know where you intend to find a _suitable_ bandit camp. I've ridden around this area of Cyrodiil more times than I should like to and I've never seen a bandit camp anywhere."

"There will be a camp somewhere... If not then I'm sure we'll get jumped by some rogue bandits on our travels. We make pretty easy targets; couple of men in the wilderness at night, nowhere near any guards or settlements. Say, do you suppose we ought to go perhaps a little faster?"

Turner shrugged, a fairly unhelpful gesture in the dark. "I'd say Snowdrop could go faster, so it depends on you."

"This is probably the only thing I'll miss when I'm alive again. I am so much more powerful than I was before I turned, physically that is. I'm faster, stronger... perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing to stay this way, if I could appear _alive_ and go out in the sunlight without melting and..."

"I think I know where you can get some blood," the Argonian interrupted, hit by a sudden revelation.

"Pray, tell."

"Well if we can get there we can find some in Cheydinhal... Or rather, _I_ can find some in Cheydinhal, you'd have to wait outside the city..."

Seanturco shook his head. "No matter how fast we go we won't make it to Cheydinhal. To get there in less than a day would be a feat, but to get there _overnight_? Not possible." There was silence for a few moments. "Say, don't bandits often live in forts?"

"Yes," Turner replied without thinking, his mind automatically returning to his experiences in Fort Sutch on his second - and last - contract. "Bandits, marauders, mercenaries, vampires... It's risky to go into one just to find some blood, but I'd say it was more likely that we'll be successful than not."

"Very well then," the vampire replied after a little consideration. "Let's go bandit hunting."

xxx

It was with a heavy heart that Idari Mortha set off from Cloud Ruler Temple towards the shrine of Mephala. Despite Jauffre's promises that he would send his Blades to find her family he doubted highly that this would happen in time. To be honest she didn't really mind if she never saw her parents again, even if they were dead, but the prospect of simply never seeing her younger brother again was just too painful to be thinking about.

Shadowmere seemed to sense her discomfort and made every effort to run faster than usual to make it up to her. The horse was more than capable of understanding her, even if nobody else was.

The swift ride did little to make her feel any better about the knowledge that not only her hometown but her entire province had likely been destroyed by one single event that would rock all of Tamriel for years. The Dark Elves were resiliant and would surely rebuild to make their land even better than it had been previously, but the casualty rate would be high and very few families would be unscathed by the disaster. Idari could only hope that her family would be one of the lucky few.

She barely paid attention as Shadowmere galloped through the wilderness, almost a blur to passers-by who were lucky enough not to blink and miss the beast tearing past them at an other-wordly speed. She didn't need to pay attention, Shadowmere could find his own way to wherever his master intended to reach, and if he couldn't find the way there then he would simply return to Fort Farragut as he had been instructed by his previous rider. This time, however, he found his own way to Mephala's shrine.

Mephala was a simple being for the Dunmer to understand. She encompassed everything that the race held sacred and revered: sex, lies and murder, She educated the Chimer, She founded the Morag Tong who later split to become the Dark Brotherhood, She organised the Great Houses. Mephala was a being that the Dark Elves of Morrowind would simply be unable to overlook.

Idari approached the shrine with confidence. The worshippers were weak and would easily fall to her blade if they attempted to double-cross her; a Redguard woman in a chainmail cuirass and silken trousers, a Bosmer woman in green felt who fancied herself an assassin and a Dunmer in a brown robe with a sneering expression and an obvious appreciation for everything that her god represented.

The Dunmeri worshipper spoke first. "You approach the shrine of Mephala. Webspinner watches you, stranger."

Idari nodded in humble appreciation. Mephala was known as the Webspinner for His love of meddling in mortal affairs and the belief that a single action could change things for the worse. Mephala simply loved chaos. Unlike other gods who were definitely known by a single gender like Sheogorath or Azura, Mephala appeared to whoever He wished to ensnare as whichever gender He saw fit and could therefore be described as neither male nor female, nor both, nor neither. Idari expected as much.

"I seek an audience with Webspinner," she replied, her voice low and undeniably calm despite the news she had heard. The Dunmer she spoke with had an accent so horribly Cyrodilic that Idari doubted she would be affected in any way by the news of Vvardenfell's destruction, except maybe to claim that the Webspinner caused it with Her divine power.

"Mephala tugs the strings of mortals for Her pleasure," the worshipper said with an evil smirk on her face. "Leave the Webspinner an offering of nightshade between midnight and dawn and the Webspinner may grant you audience.

The stranger nodded and pulled out a leaf of nightshade from her black armour. She had been expecting Mephala to demand this offering and had seen fit to come prepared; after all, this was not the first task that the daedra had given her. She looked up at the sky which was black as night, both moons new and therefore not casting any light upon the ground. By her judgement it was likely to be between midnight and dawn, and if it wasn't then she would demand an audience with Mephala anyway. She did not have the time to waste.

As she approached the altar with her offering she could vaguely hear the worshippers behind her muttering some kind of daedric verse - summoning their lord forth from Oblivion. A few moments later a shril, sneering voice began to echo its way around her skull, forcing its way into all the pressure points to make the experience as uncomfortable as possible.

_Call me 'Webspinner'. Pluck but a single thread and the weave unravels. In Bleaker's Way, two families, Nord and Dunmer, live in perfect harmony. But beneath the surface lurks the secret seed of strife. Kill the leaders of the two families. Plant evidence to implicate the other family as the killer. And don't get caught. Be cunning. Don't spoil my scheme. And don't die... that would spoil everything._

Then the dreadful voice dissolved into mind numbing peels of laughter.

She had heard this voice before, only once, and thus showed no external reaction to the pain it caused her, but internally it only increased her inner turmoil. She had expected no less. Mephala could choose to know everything if She wished.

"Webspinner speaks," the Bosmer announced gleefully. "You are indeed favoured, Dunmer. See that you do not upset the wishes of Mephala."

"Do you have no faith?" Idari asked sarcastically. "The wishes of Webspinner are simple. It will not prove difficult. Could you point me in the direction of Bleaker's Way?"

The worshippers look between one another shiftily before the Redguard spoke: "It is a settlement to the west of here, on the other side of the Silver Road." Then curiosity got the better of her. "What did Webspinner order?"

"Webspinner can tell you Herself when She sees fit. It is not in my place to air the views of the daedra to the public." She pulled herself onto her horse as she spoke. She knew that he had been listening to the conversation and thus did not bother to tell him where to ride for she knew that he probably knew more about Cyrodiil than she did herself. "I will return swiftly having completed Webspinner's wishes."

Bleaker's Way was a small village with an inn located south of Bruma and north of the Imperial City. According the townspeople who live there it gets its name from Ulf the Bleaker, the first settler to move in there; later Rayno Dalvilu and his family arrived in the village and since then the two families have been living together in harmony.

Idari didn't care much for the history of the town, merely for the task in hand. She asked the Nord in the inn a little about the town, but mostly to find out just who it was she was supposed to be taking care of. Apparently these days the town was ruled over jointly by Nivan Dalvilu and Hrol Ulfgar. The Nord - Kirsten - even gave the assassin directions to their houses for her trouble, helped by a spate of drinking and the fact that she had just been aroused for a drink-induced slumber by the noisy Dunmer slipping inside who was trying to get her attention. Kirsten didn't even care enough to get the Dunmer to pay for the room she rented, she just wanted to sleep off her late night drinking.

Firstly, after slipping from the inn in a decidedly quieter fashion than she had slipped in, she paused a moment to get her bearings before heading swiftly to the house of Nivan Dalvilu who lived in a small one-storey house towards the edge of time. The lock was simple to pick and she was inside in moments.

The house was calm and silent; a fire was dying in the grate and the remanents of a meal lay on the table. _His last_, Idari thought evilly when she saw it. He didn't appear to have eaten very well either, since a large proportion of it remained untouched on the wooden plate. _Perhaps he knew of the Webspinner's intentions_.

Nivan Dalvilu lay sleeping on a lower class bed, though his attire was decidedly upper class. Beside the bed was a burgundy robe adourned with golden thread with shoes that matched. Matching shoes were always a sign that a person had at least some money to his name.

On a table at the end of the bed lay an expensive-looking dagger that seemed to take pride of place amongst the other items of pottery that also graced the table with their presence. Upon closer inspection the dagger appeared to be engraved with a single word on its highly polished hilt '_Dalvilu_'. Idari took the dagger eagerly since it would be recognised easily if she were to plant it on the dead body of Hrol Ulfgar and would throw a lot of suspicion onto the Dunmer family.

She approached the sleeping figure silently and drew her own Blade of Woe in order to begin the first task that she had been set by Mephala. _Kill the leaders of the two families_. The words still echoed in her head like Mephala felt the need to have Her wants known to Her little servant at all times or just simply enjoyed her discomfort. Idari was sure it was the latter.

The assassin placed a hand over his mouth and slit his throat before he even managed to comprehend what was happening, his red blood soaking unceremoniously into the linen bedsheets that he slept in and his red eyes rolling in death. Idari would be back soon, she knew, to plant the evidence against the Ulfgar family upon his corpse.

She left the house under cover of chameleon and approached her second destination for the night. Dawn appeared to be breaking over the horizon to the east but she paid no heed; she doubted that the drunken Nords or the haughty Dunmer would wake until it was far too late.

In stark contrast this house was not nearly as neat and well-kept as the other. Empty bottles of mead were strewn across the ground and the evidence of a late night drinking session. Idari walked past them simply enough. This house was two-storeys and Hrol slept on the upper level which consisted of a roughly slatted floor, bottles of various alcoholic beverages and a bed with a heavily-snoring Nord splayed across it near a second empty bed.

Idari approached without hesitation, amazed that the floorboards did not groan in complaint as she trod on them, and plunged the Dalvilu dagger into Hrol's back, stifling his groan of pain with a basic silence spell. She fled the scene simply enough without even waiting for him to stop writhing with the pain that he could not vocalise and enter an eternal slumber.

Beneath the wooden planks that led to the upper floor she caught sight of two hams smoking on a burner ready to be eaten in the morning, a fate that they would never fulfil. Glancing about for some incriminating evidence, her eyes came to focus on the only area of the house that seemed to be in perfect order, a table upon which lay a golden ring inset with gemstones. It appeared unique enough to be identified and upon closer inspection it seemed to have some form of inscription on it, but it was too faded to be able to read in the bleak dawn light that was only just beginning to show through the windows.

She pocketed the ring and crossed back to Nivan Dalvilu's house where she placed the incriminating evidence on the still warm and still bleeding corpse of the Dunmer. Then, satisfied with her efforts, she returned to the inn to wait until morning.

She heard it before she saw it. A clamour downstairs as one of the Ulfgars ran inside to fetch Kirsten for the battle, a rousing cry of "Those bloody Dunmer have murdered Hrol. I knew we were wrong to trust them all along!", the drawing of weapons, the slamming of doors. Idari crossed to the window to see them in the streets, four Dunmer against three Nords. The Nords were bigger and stronger but the Dunmer had the advantage of numbers and had magic at their every command.

It was hard to know where to watch. At first the Nords ran screaming vile battle cries into the battle, swinging swords and daggers at the frail mer, but the Dark Elves moved away from their attacks and spells flew from their fingertips - paralysis mainly, but the occasional fireball was seen screeching through the morning air. The first to fall was the male Nord with the iron longsword, a dagger driven into his stomach by one of the Dalvilu women who appeared to have swallowed some kind of potion to increase her speed.

The two Nord women stood back to back now, blocking the thrusts of the four Dunmer who surrounded them and seeming to be losing the battle. Nevertheless they put up a valiant fight, slicing one of the Dunmer in the gut with a dagger so that he fell to the ground in pain, blood pooling around him. His skin was unusually green compared with the rest of his clan and his hair was particularly orange, but his strange appearance was lost in the heat of the battle as he vomited his own blood and collapsed weakly.

In a slash of silver the innkeeper Kirsten fell to the ground and her blood began to drip from her body slowly and agonisingly like treacle dripping from a jar. Idari wondered exactly why all her life wasn't just flooding out at once, but it seemed that a dagger seemed to be imbedded in the wound itself and was thus keeping it in place like a cork in a bottle. The assassin watched it intently; normally the blood would have intrigued or disgusted, but not anymore, now it was just blood.

The final Nord woman did not last long with three Dunmer turning their swords and daggers upon her and her alone. She took a fireball in a chest almost moments after Kirsten fell and was dead even before the Dalvilus felt need to run her through.

Once it was all over the Dunmer appeared to calm almost immediately and made a small move to try and heal their fallen clan member, though this would eventually prove fruitless for he had already passed to the Void.

Idari skipped downstairs and into the streets to act surprised, something which, despite the current situation in Morrowind, she had always found easy.

"I don't know what happened here," one of the Dalvilu women said when she caught sight of her. "We had always lived in peace with the Ulfgars and then they betrayed us like this..."

"Why were you fighting?" Idari probed, glad she could feign ignorance without a second thought.

She gestured behind her to where the other woman was kneeling over the body of the fallen Dunmer. "Satha went to see our clan leader this morning and found him dead with his throat slit! We found the Ulfgar family ring on his corpse so we knew that they'd betrayed us!"

"You didn't think to ask them about it?"

"No, they attacked us! They kept accusing us of murdering Hrol Ulfgar, stabbing him with our family's ceremonial dagger. We did not kill Ulfgar so they had no right to attack us..."

She was cut off abruptly by the only surviving male Dunmer laying a hand on her shoulder. "Calm yourself Malyani," he growled at her, though his words came out more softly than they sounded. "Stranger, you should leave..." Then his eyes turned to the ground sorrowfully. "We have past friends and family to bury."

Idari took her leave of Bleaker's Way as the woman identified as Satha appeared to dissolve into tears over one of the corpses that littered the ground of the small village, a truly morbid sight. She rode back to the shrine quickly and simply as if moving in a dream state.

She had barely set foot near the altar when the horrific voice began to echo in her mind again.

_Well done, little webspinner. Is there a prettier sight than friends at war? Take pleasure in the strife you have caused, mortal. Savour the divine essence of a well-spun plot. And here's a little needle to help you stitch your own tangled tapestries._

Suddenly she was made aware of a weight on her right hip. It was a blade made of ebony with intricate carvings running over the hilt. Idari looked at the blade only in disgust.

"Webspinner favours you, stranger," the Dunmeri worshipper said, a strangely disturbing grin on her face as she spoke.

The stranger did not reply, she merely shrugged and mounted her insane monstrosity of a horse before tearing away in a direction that appeared to be north. The sooner this was over, the better.

xxx

Turner staggered out of the fort into the dawn light and sunk to the grass, his head spinning. One would think that after his experiences in Oblivion he would have grown accustomed to blood by now, but they were tragically mistaken.

The pair had stumbled into a fort with a ready supply of blood, some of it could even have been considered 'worthy', but Turner suspected that more of it would have been split meaninglessly on the floor than put to good use in protecting a vampire from the sun.

Also, strangely enough, he had been thoroughly disturbed by just how feral his companion had become when confronted with the sight and smell of blood, and had given up the fighting simply so that he would not find himself caught in the crossfire.

Seanturco would come outside when he was ready.

It felt like hours before the doors of the fort swung open again to reveal an Altmer who looked decidedly more alive than before. It wasn't hours, it was probably more like half an hour, but the squeamish Argonian put this down to the fact that his mind was still in a relative state of protest after witnessing the violent spectacle within the fort.

The vampire did not look happy. His eyes were turned to the ground and much redder than usual and his hands appeared to be shaking with the effort of controlling himself. "I'm a monster," he muttered, returning once again to the argument that he tended to use when he upset himself like this. "A murderer..."

Turner sighed heavily and staggered to his feet, keeping his distance but attempting to seem friendly. "You're not a murderer," he said slowly. "It was necessary..."

"Necessary? That's one I never thought I'd hear. Perhaps it would not be murder if I had taken blood from every single person I killed in there, but I didn't so it is. Even after I change back I will be haunted by some of the things in there for all eternity. I hope that my life will prove worth it."

The Argonian sighed again as he pulled himself up onto his horse. "They were bandits, marauders; think about how many lives _they_ have taken, that they will take. You've done a service. In the long run you'll see what I mean. You are not a murderer..." He had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from adding 'But I am' to the end of that comment. "If we make it to Cheydinhal you shouldn't have to do that again for quite some time... Hopefully if we find a cure then never again."

"What's in Cheydinhal?" the Altmer asked instinctively, though he knew that he probably ought not be asking such questions while accompanying an assassin.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you," Turner replied carefully, his mind returning to his mediocre knowledge of the Five Tenets. "I just know a way that you shouldn't have to do that again."

"Have you met many vampires?"

Turner had to try very hard not to do a double take at that question, for he knew that if he did he would most likely topple off his horse and end up looking like an idiot. "Not... many, no?" he replied awkwardly.

Seanturco smiled weakly. "I am not the first though?" he asked rhetorically for he could tell by his companion's reaction that he was stating only fact. "I should have guessed, I suppose. It is very hard to take blood without killing someone..." There was a pause. "How do you live with it? The death?"

"I'm not the right person to be asking," he got in reply. "If you tried my methods you'd drown anyway. I never intended life to go this way and I don't think I deal with it very well, so I think you'll have to find your own coping mechanism."

"I don't suppose asking the Hero of Kvatch would be a very intelligent plan..." the Altmer muttered sourly as they began to move away from the fort.

"Not at all," Turner said, resisting the urge to smile. "I think she'd help you cope with it by killing you instead."

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_Author Note: Yeah, a quick update, I'll give you that one. It took a lot of research, this one. I haven't done that quest in ages. I reread this one before I posted it too; the spelling looks alright, and the grammar... well, god knows. I'm not good with grammar. It's not a great chapter, I know. I've written better, I've written worse - and now I'm even repeating myself in author notes. Lovely. Don't worry, I'll get back to DB in a while. Idari has other things on her mind right now but she'll be alright._

_The fort mentioned is Fort Nikel, if you were wondering. Baurus' decision was sudden, but he did consider it. Seanturco's pretty emotionally disturbed now but he's putting on a brave face, and Turner's gone back to sounding like the Turner we all know again. :) Idari? She'll come round. ...I think I may have just accidentally quoted one of my past chapters... Oh dear. Anywho, review. ~ARTY~_


	23. Bruma Gate

_I have 11 chapters in which to reach my goal. I hope you all will help me with this, for I can't achieve it without you. If you read, review and then my goal shall be achieved in no time whatsoever. What is my goal? That this be my most popular story, of course. 90 reviews in less than 33 chapters. THAT is why every review is appreciated. ~ARTY~_

_A Quote that works with this chapter: __**Do you know how a Phalanx works? Everyone protects the man to his left from thigh to neck - Leonidas - 300**__. You'll see why it works if you sit tight_

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Chapter 23

It wasn't always snowing in Bruma. People who visited the city in an irregular pattern might well have told you that it did indeed _always_ snow in Bruma, but they'd be wrong. Bruma was high in the Jerall Mountains so it _often_ snowed there, but on the odd occasion the bitterly cold weather could actually take a turn for the better.

It was relatively sunny by the time Idari Mortha returned to Cloud Ruler Temple. The cold snow was still thick on the ground from the previous snowstorm and blinding unfortunate travellers when the light hit it in a certain way, but it was beginning to melt. The assassin had removed the black robes that she had stolen from J'Ghasta's house by now and had then stored in a pouch that she had fixed to Shadowmere's saddle, but she stubbornly refused to remove her black leather armour for any reason, even the scorching sun.

The Blades were out on patrol now and saw her riding her black horse in her black armour against the white snow almost as soon as she rounded the walls of Bruma; they had the doors open in time for her arrival.

She sprang from her horse with surprising energy and allowed the animal to find its own way to the stables, something which thoroughly baffled the onlooking Blades, before marching into the main hall defiantly. Martin seemed to have brought all his research from his room so that he could sit downstairs and was just as surrounded by books as he had been in his own chambers.

The Emperor smiled when he saw her. "I trust you had no difficulty..."

"The gods are easy to please," the assassin explained. "Do their bidding and you are rewarded. The Divines? Not unless you join the Tribunal Temple..."

"You have brought back an artifact?"

"Of course," Idari replied, unhooking the Ebony Blade from her hip and laying it before the Imperial. "Mephala's Ebony Blade."

Martin took a moment to gaze at the sword before replying. His words were carefully considered. "I wonder if Mephala herself knows how many lives have been taken by this foul blade over the years. I will be glad to give the world a respite from it if only for a short while."

"Have you translated more?"

"Not yet." Martin shook his head as he spoke. "However I believe that Jauffre has a task for you; he's just too proud to ask you himself."

"What task?"

"The Blades managed to root out some Mythic Dawn agents spying on us here in Cloud Ruler Temple. It took some pretty drastic methods but eventually they let slip that an Oblivion gate would be opening outside Bruma any time within the next week. It is important that other cities are protected, but Jauffre deems it essential that Bruma does not fall..."

"He wants me to stay and close it?" Idari cut him off abruptly.

"No," the ex-priest continued, seemingly unfazed by having been cut off. "He wants you to show the Bruma City Guard how to close the gates so they can protect the city while you are away. Captain Burd of Bruma believes this is a good idea and wishes to meet you."

"Where is Jauffre now?"

"Last I heard he was rallying troops for an expedition to Morrowind. He's not in a good mood at the moment; he wrote to Chancellor Ocato asking for troops and Ocato refused. He wants to send three men but he feels that leaving Cloud Ruler Temple undermanned is not a good idea..."

"Write to Janus Hassildor and ask for troops," the Dunmer said suddenly. "Tell him the Hero of Kvatch wishes to call in that favour for saving his city."

"Hassildor?" Martin repeated with some consideration. "I am surprised Jauffre did not think of that himself. You should find him in the East Wing, I think; you should suggest it to him. By the time you return from Bruma I should have the second item figured out."

"Very well," Idari replied, strolling towards the door. "But, coming from me, I don't think Jauffre will approve of it very much."

xxx

Being out in full daylight for the first time since he'd turned was a strange prospect for the Altmeri vampire. At first it had hurt his blood red eyes that had grown accustomed to skulking in darkness and the sun beating down on him without burning was stranger still.

"I could get used to this..." he mumbled to himself as he continued to jog along the road to Cheydinhal.

"Travelling in the sun?" Turner asked him with a slight smirk. "Yeah, I know, so could I..."

The vampire rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You _know_ what I mean," he said, attempting to enforce his point by adding emphasis to his words. "The sun is like a powerful natural enemy that I've finally reached an agreement with. Such a shame it isn't permanent."

"Your invulnerability to the sun should last for three days... well, two before it starts to get slightly uncomfortable and three before it becomes fatal. How long do you think it'll take us to reach Cheydinhal?"

"At this speed?" Seanturco replied with a slight pause for consideration. "A day at most, unless we meet any obstacles like, say, that village up ahead needing help with something..."

Turner looked up suddenly to see the village that he hadn't yet noticed. He didn't even know there was a village north of the Imperial City and he had ridden this way more times than he would have cared to. "I'm pretty sure it's empty..." he said. "I've never seen any people there at least... and even if there were do you really think they'd ask for help from us?"

The High Elf shrugged. "I suppose you have a point, but it seems a bit well kept for an abandoned village..."

"Recently abandoned?" the Argonian suggested. "Perhaps after we've sorted out this cure business you can return and find out what happened here. We don't really have the time right now; I'd hate to think what the Hero of Kvatch would do to me if she found out I did something else instead of search for a cure for her..."

"Point taken. Though I believe it would more likely be me who was on the receiving end of most of her anger rather than you. I encompass everything she hates. She _needs_ you."

"Only until I find her a cure for vampirism," Turner pointed out simply. "Once I've found it what will become of me then? Will she dispose of a loose end?"

Seanturco thought about this claim for a moment. "She's saved your life before, hasn't she? That shows that she must care about you even a little bit. She saved you before you went off on this stupid quest for her so I guess she'll leave you be when your uses run out..."

The assassin shook his head. "No, I know her past and that means she will rarely let me out of her sight. She'll either kill me or drag me off on _her_ quest to save Tamriel while insulting me all the way."

"What in Oblivion would she gain by doing that?" the vampire asked, perplexed.

The Argonian smirked. "Nothing. It's just the way she is."

xxx

The ground quaked slightly when it opened and Idari knew that she still had a few moments before she would be required to rendezvous with Captain Burd of the Bruma City Watch. Her conversation with Jauffre had not proved fruitless but was thoroughly pointless considering that all he had to tell her was exactly what Martin had already explained a few moments before. Apparently Jauffre would send a messenger to Skingrad as soon as the Bruma gate was closed and soldiers to Morrowind as soon as he heard back from Hassildor. The Dunmer merely assumed that these tactics were his version of stalling; Cloud Ruler Temple would not fall if he sent a few men away.

The gate had opened between Bruma and Cloud Ruler Temple but was not large enough to allow the daedric weaponry necessary to destroy a city pass through it. A few daedra began to pour out almost immediately but, unlike Skingrad or Kvatch, the Bruma guard had no difficulty in holding them back following their reluctant tip-off and therefore the hero made no attempt to quicken her pace in order to help them. The Blades were waiting to save her brother, why shouldn't she wait to help them?

Her logic was wrong. It didn't take a genius to work that out. Even internally she knew that closing this gate faster meant that aid would go to Morrowind faster, but she was too stubborn to see it that way.

She could have pointed out Captain Burd in the battle from twenty paces since he was the only Nord around. Like most cities most of the guards were Imperial and even high in the Jerall Mountains Bruma was no exception. He led from the front, his sword growing wet with the blood of the daedra he dispatched cleanly, honourably. When he caught sight of the mysterious woman in black armour he allowed his men to take over his position in order to speak with her.

"You are the Hero of Kvatch?" he asked simply, itching to throw himself back into the battle at the first opportunity. His accent was weak, but he was originally of Skyrim without a doubt; Idari suspected he had come to Cyrodiil from his homeland in his youth and just never gotten round to going back. She nodded. "Then you are here to show us how to close these things. As soon as we've gotten rid of this wave we'll go; I've chosen two men to go with us, Bor and Soren, but we'll follow your lead."

"Very well," the hero replied, drawing a new katana that she had had the sense to lift from Cloud Ruler Temple to replace her old one. She suspected that Jauffre had noticed that she kept stealing weapons from him but either didn't mind or simply cared too much about Tamriel to prevent her from doing so. It was probably the latter.

Even in the heat of battle she had trouble shaking Reron from her mind; she hacked and slashed as mercilessly as she had ever done but it didn't feel the same knowing that her brother might be dead, even after all the time she had been apart from him.

As soon as the last daedra had fallen Burd began shouting orders to his men, delegating a second-in-command in case he was not to return and generally inspiring the Imperials around them to make sure that their city didn't fall. Idari would have paid attention, but her mind was firmly set elsewhere. The two men to be accompaying them stepped forward from the mess of Imperials, they were not old but nor were they noticeably young to the extent that Idari suspected they had probably been transferred to Bruma after a couple of years working elsewhere. Today was the day they would make a name for themselves. Their yellow Bruma tabbards were torn and stained with the blood of the daedra they had recently been fighting but their expressions were set and focused. A good choice of men to go into Oblivion as any. Captain Burd knew his men well.

At a signal from Burd Idari led the way into the Oblivion gate, springing over the bodies of daedra as if they weren't there at all. None of the guardsmen of Bruma had fallen yet, probably due to their prior knowledge of the attack, but the Dunmer supposed that by the time they reemerged the story might be entirely different. This gate was relatively simple compared to the other worlds that Idari had encountered in the past; it resembled an island surrounded by molten lava, blood red spikes jutting from the parched black ground and dead bodies strewn about for decoration.

It took a few moments for the Bruma guards to get their bearings before they ran headlong into a fight with a group of clannfear. Idari was glad to have capable companions for a change since it meant she did not have to be as on her guard as usual; she kept her sword drawn at all times but she did not have to use it as the men around her hacked through the daedra with minimal difficulty.

As soon as the last daedra was run through Burd raised a fist to indicate a halt and, turning to Idari he said, "Right, you're the Hero of Kvatch, so tell us what we have to do now..."

The Dunmer nodded and pointed out the sigil tower with the end of her sword. "That's where we're headed," she told him without any form of doubt in her voice. "It's guarded with dremora but it isn't too difficult to break through. At the very top is a room containing a sigil stone that anchors this place to Nirn; if we remove the stone then we'll destroy the gate. Questions?"

"What becomes of us after we remove the stone?" one of the Imperials asked slightly sheepishly. He was not afraid of death or of Oblivion, but he had heard some pretty bloody stories about people who had managed to get on the wrong side of the fabled Hero of Kvatch.

"We are teleported back to Nirn," she replied quickly. "I suspect that as we are not property of Mehrunes Dagon we are simply rejected back to the place we belong, but that is merely a theory. Watch out for daedric traps both inside and outside or you might end up resembling the corpses round here more than you'd like to. It's not too difficult to stay alive here, you just have to keep your eyes and ears open."

xxx

The city of Cheydinhal, while not the richest, is probably the most beautiful city in all of Cyrodiil. The Imperial City has the famous monuments like the White Gold Tower and the Temple of the One, but it is the opinion of more than a few people that Cheydinhal is more appealing. The houses are two storeyed and strongly influenced by the Dunmer in nearby Morrowind, and the whole place is covered in vegetation and greenery.

The Count of Cheydinhal, Andel Indarys, is the only non-Imperial count in the province and as such is the subject of many rumours among his own people. His wife died in mysterious circumstances so did he kill her? He is of House Hlaalu so did he obtain his powerful position with aid from King Helseth Hlaalu? His son is often seen in the local taverns so is he a poor father? Nobody knows the answer to these questions but Indarys himself, and nobody in Cheydinhal dares seek audience to ask him, especially with Ulrich Leland at the head of his guard.

Another, decidedly more sinister, rumour in Cheydinhal is that Count Andel Indarys knows of the goings-on in the abandoned house and is kept quiet by bribes and threats. It could easily be true, but everyone is simply too afraid to find out.

Turner slipped through the west gate of Cheydinhal just before dusk. It was probably the city he felt most comfortable in, out of all of them, but now he had a horrible feeling that he would be encountering the dead bodies of quite a few ex-family members again. That was unless Lucien had had the heart to remove them, or the Dark Guardian had suddenly developed enough brains to do anything except walk around in circles, both of which the Argonian assassin highly doubted. He had left Seanturco outside the city walls in a cluster of trees where it was unlikely he would be seen without first having the chance to simply disappear, and where the sun was not quite so intense just in case he was gone for longer than he intended to be.

With Ulrich Leland around one could never be too careful.

From the gates he walked down the right hand path past the guilds and crossed the two bridges across the river, ignoring a Dunmer who seemed to be so drunk that he was singing his heart out about nothing in particular. He was passing by the large house known as Riverview when he heard a strange shout from behind him and whipped around to find himself face to face with not one, but two Mythic Dawn agents in full summoned daedric regalia.

Alerted, he drew his bow and fired at the first one who seemed to be running at him with some vigour, summoned mace drawn. His arrow hit the target but seemed to do little damage as it glanced off harmlessly. He took a few hurried steps backwards before slinging his bow over his shoulder and drawing the heavy sword from his belt, wielding it with as much confidence as he could muster. The pair of daedra worshippers caught up to him quickly and swung their maces almost simultaneously to the extent that the Argonian had no idea which one to block first and resolved instead to take another step backwards in order to avoid both swings. To his horror his foot struck a rock as he stepped and his appalling sense of balance sent him toppling to the ground, leaving him open to all manner of attacks by the pair of agents who had nothing to lose by dying.

Suddenly one of the agents cried out in pain and their armour dissipated as they tumbled to the ground dead, an ominous looking hole in their chest. The second fell shortly, only a strangled cry to indicate their untimely demise at the hands of someone Turner had yet to register. Then he noticed a gauntleted hand being offered to him and took it almost without hesitation, finding himself on his feet in moments.

An Imperial man stood before him wearing the brown Cheydinhal cuirass and carrying the shield denoting to that of County Cheydinhal. "Are you alright Argonian?" he asked quickly, throwing a disdainful glance at the two dead Dunmer at his feet.

Turner looked around in an almost dazed fashion before answering. "Yes. Thank you... Are you a guard?" Mentally he kicked himself for asking such an obvious question, but considering that he had barely even noticed the Imperial was there he decided it might be a good idea to ask.

"Indeed I am. Five years in the Cheydinhal guard," the Imperial said with a slight smile. "What do you know about these people? They look like assassins, but I've never seen armour like theirs before and I don't know why they'd be after you..."

The Argonian looked down at the dead bodies and tried with all his might not to focus on the rapidly forming pools of blood around them. "They're not assassins, they're daedra worshippers," he replied, wondering just how much he ought to be divulging to the public. "This cult was responsible for the assassination of the Emperor and they're the reason the Oblivion gates are opening..."

"So why are they after you?" the guard probed a little deeper, watching as the Argonian stooped down to retrieve his daedric sword and attached it to his belt without a scabbard.

Turner frowned. "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. They know people are out to stop them so I suppose they set out to end that threat to their Lord Dagon."

"You are a threat?" He hadn't meant to sound quite so cynical when he'd said that, but it was a worthy observation. He had just saved the Argonian's life after all.

"I'm..." He paused to think of a suitable way to phrase his next comment. "One of those people who will remain unsung at the end of this Oblivion Crisis. I'm also one of those unlucky people who tends to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The Imperial smiled. "Obviously Arkay didn't wish you to die in the shadow of his Chapel," he said with a jesture to the collosal structure stretching above them.

Turner resisted the urge to scoff at that comment; the Imperial obviously didn't know his Divines very well. Arkay was the god of funerals and burials; the god of death. It was ridiculous that the god of death might want people to live, unless of course his joint roles as god of seasons or births came to mean anything at that time.

"Evidently," he shrugged, knowing full well that he was talking rubbish. "I suppose today I was lucky that you were so nearby."

"Indeed. I may be posted outside that house there, but it's still my duty to protect and serve the citizens... Leland will probably have my head for leaving my post but..."

"Why in the world does it need guarding?" Turner asked, slightly perturbed by this odd notion.

The Imperial shrugged. "The Dunmer who lives there couldn't pay his fines so Ulrich wanted him cast out into the streets. I'm here to see that nobody gets back in. He's probably drunk somewhere around here, that's what he was fined for in the end but he recently lost his wife to bandits so... I don't see what Leland's problem is to be perfectly honest, but I can't disobey a direct order from a superior."

"Ulrich Leland?"

"Yes. He's head of the Cheydinhal City Watch but some of the fines he's imposing are a tad ridiculous. Still, I don't make the laws, I only enforce them. You should get going, Argonian; if you intend to obstruct these cultists' Lord you shouldn't stand around talking to a lowly guard."

Turner nodded. "You saved my life and for that I shall be in your debt. If an Oblivion gate should ever open at Cheydinhal I shall be glad to venture inside and close it to repay you. It's the least I can do."

xxx

The taste of blood was not unfamiliar to the Imperial man who lay dying half way up the tower leading to the Sigil Keep at the top. He could taste it in his mouth following the grievous wound he had received to his stomach when a daedric sword had found its way through the back of his armour. He knew he was dying, it was not difficult to work out, but he was not afraid of death; it was honourable to die for one's country.

The Captain of Bruma City Watch stood over him barking instructions to the Dunmeri woman who was walking about almost in a complete daze, his cuirass and tabbard torn and drenched in more blood than it had seen in a lifetime of service, his shield abandoned at the base of the tower when a daedric mace had almost smashed a hole through it and his sword dented and damaged to the extent that it would not be capable of inflicting much damage anymore even if it struck a man head on.

"Heal him, _now_!" the Nord commanded with an angry sense of urgency in his voice that made him sound almost terrifying to the unprepared ear.

The Dunmer blinked at him like she did not understand. "I can't heal him, his wound is too severe, I..." It was not like her to be so dazed and confused but for some unknown reason her confidence had almost abandoned her.

"What are you talking about?" Burd demanded, his voice growing gruffer and angrier with every word. "You're a mer aren't you? Cast some spell to save him!"

The woman knelt down beside the Imperial's bloody form and gingerly lay the flat of a palm upon his wound like she was afraid to touch the blood that was leaking from it. The sword had gone all the way through, it had torn tissue, ruptured organs, it was too late to try and save him now. She muttered the words to a healing spell and magicka began leaching from her fingertips into the dying man's body, knitting together flesh as it went. The Imperial tried weakly to knock her hand away, he knew it wasn't worth it because he'd be dead in a few minutes whether he was healed or not, he'd simply lost too much blood.

The Nord and the other Imperial man stood at either end of the body, watching the entrances in case more daedra should enter without their knowledge and finish the job of killing them all. He had lain down his life to protect another and they were both willing to do the same, if it meant Tamriel would continue to exist.

The magic was not powerful enough and the Dunmer shook her head solemnly as the last of the life left the Imperial's body and he at last came to rest.

"You call yourself a hero?" the irate Nord shouted at her. "He died because of you!"

She frowned in response. "I was quite capable of protecting myself..."

"Have you ever heard of honour, of decency? It is a man's duty to protect his comrades, even to the point of death!"

"Then he will want us to carry on and shut this thing and save Tamriel! That's what he would have wanted! Standing here arguing over who's fault it was that he died is not going to solve anything!" She did not seem impressed. She stood and picked her sword up from the ground, heading towards the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Burd demanded, his face almost red with rage.

"To close the gate."

Burd scowled. "We do not leave a man behind. What do we tell his widow? His children? We left his body in Oblivion to rot? The Hero of Kvatch saw fit to leave their dear family behind?" With the help of the other Imperial he lifted the body of his fallen comrade onto his shoulders. It was not a heavy weight for a strong Nord like the guard captain, but it would make fighting decidedly more awkward.

"We tell them he died a hero," the Dunmer replied to him simply. "In this crisis many men and women will die, many already have and many more still will. There are countless heroes who will lay down their lives but only a select few will be recognised for the deeds that they will do. I am no hero, you said as much yourself; I would not _die_ to save others. Most of the heroes in this war - and it is definitely to be considered a war - will be unsung, just like in any war. Tell his widow and his children that the greatest heroes of all are the service men and women who lay down their lives in the service of their Emperor and their country, and their loss will be felt by people all over this province."

"Then why in Oblivion did the gods choose _you_?" the Nord spat, his voice contemptuous and full of bitter loathing.

Idari shrugged. "The gods had nothing to do with it. The Emperor chose me. I don't know what he saw in me..." She paused before asking: "Have you heard of the Hero of Skingrad?" Burd shook his head with a slight growl. "Well you will do, some day. _He_ is a real hero. He will do great things when the time comes..."

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_Author Note: This was one of those annoying chapters where, no matter how much you write, it never seems to get any longer. Thus it's particularly short... Well, compared to the previous few it's short. Explanations, explanations, I should write this in a way where I do not have to explain everything to you at the end of the chapter as I go along, but I know some people will bring up the things I mention, so I may as well give everyone the explanation to avoid repeating myself: Turner's not foolish, he's clumsy; it's a undeniable truth. Poor Turner. The bit with the village... Setting up for a later chapter, perhaps. Village of Aleswell, if you wondered. Idari is not being out-of-character, she's just not really with it after the news about Morrowind. I've glazed over a couple of fighting scenes to try and demonstrate this, not because I suck at writing. That bit at the end is exactly what Idari thinks of Turner - she'll never tell him that, she's too proud. I decided to give the guard outside Aldos Othran's house a little more character, because he's the only essential generic guard out there. He'll be reappearing later. Burd's ticked off; how will this affect the storyline? Don't ask me. Oh, and remember that Idari couldn't heal that guy, it's VERY important later on._

_OK, explanations over. Thanks to DualKatanas and Nachtrae for reviewing. I've been asked to write a oneshot where Seanturco meets Vicente, so if anyone has any ideas/suggestions to help with that they'd be appreciated. Toodle pip ~ARTY~_


	24. Drakelowe

_DualKatanas: Yup, I've definitely figured that Redguard out. No worries, your secret is safe with me :P_

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Chapter 24

It was dark by the time Turner returned to the small glade of trees outside Cheydinhal carrying what appeared to be some very ominous bottles.

"You took your time," the vampire pointed out. He had grown extremely restless during his time alone and had considered entering the city anyway to satiate his inquisitive mind even though he knew that being caught would have meant almost immediate execution or rather more bloodshed than his conscience could deal with.

"Bottled blood," Turner replied with a slight smile. "I have only come across it in one place, and today that place just seems to be relatively near a Mythic Dawn hideout. The long and short of it is that I was attacked by cultists and that is why I took so long..."

"Cultists?"

Turner sighed. He didn't expect the Altmer to know anything about it. "The Mythic Dawn murdered the Emperor, and the Hero of Kvatch and I managed to anger them by stealing their book and now, evidently, they're trying to kill us..."

"Oh good," Seanturco smirked. "When you mentioned you had bottled blood I was beginning to wonder if you'd had trouble harvesting it."

"Funny," the Argonian replied sarcastically. "Well I have four bottles, so I suggest you use it sparingly and only when you need to. I don't know precisely where we're headed but I suppose we should just head southwards from here."

"Hassildor said she lived near the ruins of Vahtacen. There aren't any houses there so she most be south of there, possibly near the Reed River. If we're quick we might be able to find her by daybreak..."

Turner smiled. "Find her, yes, but I doubt she'll make the cure for free. You're probably going to have a few more days of afterlife left before we cure you."

xxx

The dead weight on his shoulders had not prevented Captain Burd from fighting some of the lesser daedra that Dagon threw at him in order to prevent them from collapsing His gate. His two companions flanked him on either side to take out the dremora before they reached him and attacked ruthlessly, determined not to end up as another corpse on his burly Nordic shoulders. The Dunmer fought with an Akaviri katana and a silver shortsword, butchering her opponents with scary precision while the Imperial soldier fought honourably with an iron sword in his right hand and a shield in his left that was growing more battered with every assault. They ran through the carnage in the Sigillum Sanguis as if it weren't there, up the stairs of bone, over the sheets of flesh to the very top and to the reason they had undertaken this suicidal mission anyway: the Sigil Stone.

Burd grabbed the stone from its column of fire following shouted instructions from the Hero of Kvatch as she dueled a dremora that was almost twice her height and armed to the teeth with weapons of a far better quality than hers. The fire erupted upwards and tore through the ceiling of the tower, flames licking at the fleshy walkways on either side and the ground beneath their feet shaking with an intensity unlike the Nord or the Imperial had ever experienced before. The mortals stood in a group as the fires raged, back to back with weapons drawn and blood splattered on the faces of those who were not wearing a hood, the last of the dremora dead at their feet.

Suddenly they were there no longer, snow and grass cushioning the collapse of their weary limbs as they reappeared outside Bruma. Soldiers rushed to their aid, helping them up, reporting the status of their men to their captain, streaming words of praise. Burd was not listening, he merely drew himself up to his feet, Imperial corpse still on his shoulder, and carried the body to the gates of his city, laying it beside the corpses of the other soldiers who had fallen in the battle, former friends and former heroes each. Two other men had fallen, one had taken a fireball to the chest, another had broken his neck when he was charged by a particularly strong clannfear; other men were being treated by mages for their injuries, others were unharmed but traumatised, none were unaffected.

The Hero stood among them silently, ignoring the questions they threw at her and thinking only of her brother. She didn't care if Burd and the rest of the Bruma guard hated her guts, she didn't even care if Cyrodiil were to suffer a similar fate to Vvardenfell, she just wanted to know if her brother was alive. She walked away from them and they fell silent; she was not the Hero they had been expecting, she was not the kind of Hero they would wish to honour with a statue one day, she was not the kind of Hero they would allow their children to strive to be like... She may not have been the type of Hero any of the Bruma guards would have wished for, but, as would later be correctly pointed out by one of the scribes while writing up the history of the Oblivion Crisis, she was their only hope.

xxx

Drakelowe was a tiny cottage on the eastern bank of the Reed River, a considerable distance south of the cave known as Vahtacen where Janus Hassildor had directed them to start looking. From what they could tell it was almost entirely cut off from civilization; it had a vegetable patch to provide food, water from the river and no form of path to lead a traveller to it except the faint trodden path between the river and the front door.

It was dark now but a light could be seen through the small windows of the cottage, so the Argonian and the High Elf decided to throw caution to the wind and enter the house, regardless of who lived there. They knew the witch lived in a house and they knew she lived south of Cheydinhal, and this was the only house that they had stumbled upon during their search so they were more than willing to risk going inside. Frustratingly the door was locked, if only for a moment before it was opened by the mage, and thus any move they made from now on was considered trespassing, a punishable offence. Nevertheless they proceeded.

Inside the cottage was a single room with one lower class wooden bed, a small table and chairs, various storage containers and two long wooden benches positioned on either side of the door. At the table sat an old Breton woman with white hair and a face creased with age.

"Get out of my house," she said forcefully but calmly.

"Melisande?" Seanturco ventured as Turner took a step back towards the door to avoid a confrontation. The woman nodded, rising from her chair as if to enforce the point that she wished them to leave. "We seek a cure for vampirism and we have been directed to you."

"I know," she replied tersely. "You stink of undead, I could tell you were a vampire from a mile away." As she stood they could see that her attire was lower class too, a brown skirt and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow pulled close to her body by something that resembled a waistcoat or an upper class bodice. Despite all this, their knowledge of her power made her seem all the more threatening. "I shan't make you a cure until you bring me five empty Grand Soul Gems. If you both want a cure you shall bring me ten. You will get two bottles of the cure. I know Janus Hassildor seeks a cure; I have always known Janus Hassildor seeks the cure and you will take a bottle to him once I am done. If you have no questions you will leave my house now."

While the vampire opened his mouth as if to speak the Argonian dragged him back towards the now open door and into the countryside beyond, shutting it firmly behind him. "She made herself clear," he said almost as soon as the door was closed. "Where do we get Grand Soul Gems?"

Seanturco answered without hesitation. "The Arcane University, of course. If they don't have ten then we shall have to buy some from the merchants in the Market District - the Mystic Emporium is a good place to start - and if not then the Mages Guild chapters usually have at least one. Cheydinhal is the closest, but Chorrol, Skingrad and Bravil are not far from the Imperial City..." He paused, weighing up options. "You know, it will take an awfully long time to ride all the way around to the Imperial City again... By my reckoning the University is almost directly west of us, and only a short distance across Lake Rumare. You're an Argonian; swimming would be rather simpler."

Turner looked at his incredulously. "Swimming?" he asked, not buying the plan for one moment. "And what of you? Of my horse? The University are not going to give Grand Soul Gems to some random Argonian who walks in off the streets now, are they? And you can't very well stroll into a shop and ask a merchant for a Soul Gem, at best you'd be arrested!"

"If I wear a hood I can appear alive," the vampire insisted, almost pleadingly. "And Raminus Polus will recognise you; I'm sure he'll help. Tell him I send my regards, and that the scrolls he gave me didn't really do their intended job... I have no idea what you might tell him that would confirm you've been sent by me... Perhaps," he reached a hand to the back of his neck and undid the clasp on an amulet he had been wearing. "Show him this Spelldrinker Amulet."

The Argonian laughed instinctively. "He'll think I've murdered you if I take him that. You ought to go to the Arcance University and I ought to travel around the other cities. You can swim, can't you? Or at least cast Water Walking."

"Alteration is not my speciality, but I suppose you're right," Seanturco shrugged. "The Cheydinhal guildhall is specialised in Alteration, but I doubt that my walking in there would have a very good effect; they'd want to know who they were selling their spells to, and they'd recognise me from the time I did my recommendation there... It's hard to forget a recommendation like that one..."

"What happened?" Turner asked, unable to prevent his curiosity from getting the best of him.

The Altmer smiled the kind of knowledgable smile that only someone who knows something that someone else doesn't can. "They discovered that their chapter head was a necromancer. He had been killing off new recruits by sending them on impossible missions like collecting a 'Ring of Burden' from the bottom of a flooded well. I found a dead body down there, it was awful, swimming in there when he was..." His voice trailed off. "Well their chapter head was a necromancer, basically, and he tried to kill me. Luckily the coward ran off to join his necromancer friends before he had a chance to finish the job, and the other chapter members had the sense to find me before I drowned, or else I might not be standing before you today."

"Luck was on your side," the Argonian said in a low voice. "It pains me to ask this, but how do I know you won't just take the Soul Gems back to the witch, get your own cure and hit the road?"

"Trust," Seanturco replied simply. "You have done nothing but help me and as such I'm almost tempted to call you a friend. Besides, I'm headed back to the University and your Dunmeri assassin would have no trouble hunting me down and taking me out. You'll have to trust me that I'll be there when you come back. Let's say... Black Waterside Stables, four days from now, dusk. I have nothing to gain by running away, except perhaps an early grave; she's already promised me that even the _thought_ of betrayal will make me end up dead anyway."

The assassin chuckled. "She would probably follow up on that threat just to spite me. I won't let her kill you if I have anything to do with it, but she doesn't listen to me - or anyone else for that matter - so I can't promise you that she won't just kill you anyway. OK, four days from now. Safe journey, mage."

"Assassin." The High Elf inclined his head in a symbol of cultured politeness before realising just what he had actually said and shaking with silent laughter. "That is not something one finds themself saying every day," he said between uncontrolled and rather uncultured fits of laughter. "It's utterly absurd!"

"It is rather, isn't it?" Turner smirked. "Unfortunate truth though. Perhaps next time we should just stick to using names..."

xxx

Cloud Ruler Temple was oddly silent considering how close Oblivion had come to breaching the defenses of Bruma. The Blades stood on the ramparts and examined the view below, the discord caused by the single event of one Oblivion gate opening. Jauffre had forbade them from assisting the battle, lest they leave the fortress undermanned and daedric winged twilights mount an airbourne attack and thus end the Septim dynasty. It had been heartbreaking for the soldiers to watch the scenes at the base of the hill without being able to help; they had itched to join the fighting, considered disobeying a direct order, watched and waited, prayed, sparred to channel their anger. They understood their Grandmaster's reasoning, but that did not mean that they were inclined to accept and agree with it, and it would not stop their complaints. True soldiers did not stand at the edge of battle and watch.

Then it was over.

The fires were extinguished by the force of the obsidian collapse, the last of the daedra were run through with hardened precision, the fallen were laid out and honoured, the Hero and her companions returned. Despite the success the scene was strangely melancholy and one of the soldiers who had entered the gate appeared to have not survived. A single figure clothed in black left the gaggle of comrades and set off up the hill alone; Roliand spotted her first while on his rounds of the battlements, unaffected by the cold due to his Nord heritage and as angry as the rest about having been denied his moment of battle. All the Blades actively wanted to fight for their Emperor and _all_ his heirs, even the illegitimate ones, until victory, or until death.

There was blood on her, but it wasn't hers. She looked uncomfortable to be covered in it but relieved that it had only stained her clothing and that her clothing was so dark that it barely showed up to the untrained eye. The Blades moved aside to let her pass for, though her aura was solemn, there was a distinct sense of caged up rage about her as she walked and they all knew by now how prone her temper was to flaring in the direction of whosoever she pleased it to.

She didn't seem to be paying attention to them and walked resolutely towards the Main Hall of the fortress, apparently unaware of the Blades' eyes following her every step. She was not unobservant, she saw every single one of them wondering with unbelievable ignorance just what had occured in Oblivion to make the victory scene so reserved. She knew that one day they might actually figure it out.

Martin had been moved to his room by a rather overprotective Grandmaster, and the Blades who had not been gaping outside seemed to be watching all the entrances to see that nothing went amiss. Idari admired their determination, but they had already allowed one Septim to die on their watch.

Jauffre met her before she reached Martin's room and stood in the narrow walkway in a deliberate fashion that meant she could not get past. She knew, given the chance, that she could easily take down the old Breton, but for now he served a purpose so she saw it fit to allow him to live.

"Dunmer," Jauffre began as if uncertain of what he ought to be saying at this moment in time. "His Majesty has informed me that he hasn't yet figured out the second item for the ritual, so your services are not required."

Idari glared at him, eyes like daggers and burning like Oblivion itself. "If my services are not required then I will take leave of this bloody province," she spat back, voice like venom.

"You shall do no such thing," the Grandmaster told her, adopting an authoritative tone. "For the final battle Bruma shall need reinforcements; we cannot rely souly on the City Watch. I have written to the Counts and Countesses of every city and they have all replied with the same thing - _'Not while my city is under threat'_-" Had she been in a better mood, Idari might have smirked at the Breton's attempt at sounding like an upper class Imperial, but instead her expression remained set. "It seems that they are all too afraid of the threat to their own counties to aid their future Emperor. Some gates have already opened outside some cities but no attacks have yet been made. If you close the gates for the nobility then we may stand a better chance of winning this battle. Hassildor is sending men to us as we speak, and Savlian Matius has informed me that, upon the unfortunate demise of Count Ormellius Goldwine, he can spare a soldier to prevent Bruma ending up like Kvatch despite his... differences with you-"

"He was a decent soldier," the assassin spoke slowly, as if fighting the words that were leaving her lips. "I left his city to burn because I knew that he could retake it himself but still he chose to wait. Kvatch will be rebuilt and he will be the new Count, of that I am sure. I never intended to travel to every city in this province, and I have _work_ to do asides from that issued by you, however I will close the gates outside the cities if I am nearby. I _will not_ be brought before every noble in this land on some stupid quest..."

Jauffre cut her off. "Count Cheydinhal's plea for help was the most urgent," he told her, armoured fists clenched into a ball. "It seems his son has decided to take it upon himself to close the gate. If you do nothing else, at least spare the boy from this fate."

The Dunmer shook her head in disbelief. "Farwil Indarys fancied himself a knight because his father had the power to grant him a knighthood. If he goes into that gate he will surely die, there are no two ways about it. I will go to Cheydinhal but Indarys must expect the worst. Farwil was not the sharpest sword in the rack and not very skilled with weapons, so we can only hope that his knight friends have the skills to keep him alive until I can get there..."

"So you will go?" The Breton seemed mildly surprised at this notion, as if he had been expecting a tougher fight than that to guarantee her help.

"Cheydinhal is a pleasant city." The reply was terse and final, and led Jauffre to believe that there was probably something that she was not intending on telling him, but to assure her assistance he decided not to push the matter further.

"Then Talos guide you on your travels."

"Talos?" Idari scoffed, still discontented with being blessed by the Aedra. "If Talos is all you can bless me with I'm afraid that Cyrodiil doesn't stand much of a chance. You will send men to Morrowind?"

Jauffre offered a curt nod. "The troops have been selected for the mission and they have been briefed. We wait only for the soldiers of Skingrad. A message has been sent to King Helseth Hlaalu but I imagine his reply will be re-routed to High Chancellor Ocato rather than to myself considering that it is '_official business_'. I doubt I'll hear back. Stupid Altmer thinks he owns the province the way he swans about, refusing to help us; I think that if Martin dies he'll be the one to inherit the province and therein lies the motive..."

"That's paranoia," the Dunmer resisted a smirk. Despite her current foul mood, she was not above laughing at the misfortune of others. "I'll take my leave now. Tell Baurus that if he finds my brother dead then he can bring back his corpse; I will not believe he is dead without undeniable evidence. My parents... can stay in Morrowind if there's somewhere for them to stay, if not... do not bring them here. If they are dead, bury them in Sadrith Mora; if they are alive, keep them safe but don't tell them about me. I do not want to see them."

xxx

When it comes to Water Walking the first step is always the most difficult to take. Now an Altmeri vampire stood on the shores of Lake Rumare in the early morning light, a dead mudcrab a few feet from him and four full bottles of blood tucked away safely in his robes, a short gap to the other side of the water ahead of him. To the north lay a cave that he had bade himself forget about with the utmost haste - Wellspring Cave - and to the south a perfectly viable bridge, however he had decided not to travel on the roads alone; it was safer this way.

His eyes were shut now in concentration. The only things around were mudcrabs, but they didn't do enough damage to anything to warrant attention. All in all the scene was a serene one. Another figure approached through the darkness; a stranger, an unwelcome visitor if ever there was one.

"Are you lost sir?" the stranger enquired, shattering the silence completely. "The road is only a little further south." The voice was cultured and snobbish but strangely soothing to the extent that Seanturco did not even feel the need to open his eyes.

"It is not my intention to follow the road," he intoned without thinking, his red eyes opening now and his eyes focusing on the farther shore. He didn't know why he felt so relaxed, but he could tell that it was probably a bad sign of some magic spell having been cast on him to calm him, however the more his mind started to sound alarms at the rest of his body, the more calm he became.

"Where are you heading?" The stranger asked. Seanturco could hear the figure behind him shifting his weight but other than that there was very little sign that there was even a person there.

His mind told him not to answer but yet strangely his lips obeyed; he wanted nothing more than to be rid of this stranger and his magic and yet somehow he couldn't find a way out. "The Imperial City."

Though he couldn't see, the Altmer was sure that the stranger was smiling at this prospect. "The Imperial City is almost certainly crawling with vampires. I am part of an organisation to eradicate them -" Seanturco stopped listening; he daren't even breathe in the presence of a vampire hunter. He didn't need to breathe either.

The stranger continued talking before mentioning something about the Temple District and inviting the vampire he was apparently unwittingly conversing with to join his order if he was ever in the area. When Seanturco made no reply the stranger seemed to disappear and his magic lost its grip almost instantly. The vampire looked around in dismay to find that he was now alone, causing him to breathe a sigh of relief and cast the Water Walking spell as quickly as he could bring himself to speak the words of the incantation, hurriedly jogging across the water as quickly as he could manage while still remaining as cultured as possible.

If there was one thing he was not going to do, it was join an order of vampire hunters. Not yet anyway.

* * *

_Author Note: Another of the chapters that would not get any longer, so is very short. A combination of writer's block and LIFE got in the way of my schedule so it took longer than I'd planned too. I would have stayed and written more, but - for reasons I shall explain in due course - the month of November is going to be rather awkward._

_OK, November. I'm entering the NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - so I shan't be about here as much as I'd like. Some of you should definitely think about entering too. You have to write 50,000 words of a novel between November 1st and November 30th in whichever timezone you inhabit. Think about it all of you, it seems a great idea._

_Righto. 20 points if you know who Seanturco was speaking to. Idari's bit annoyed me - twice - and set me back 2 days; and Turner's a legend. There is not very much for me to explain, but if you have something to say then please let me know XD ~ARTY~_


	25. The Wayward Knight

**Diana: **_Thanks for the review. Yup, you're right. In the words of Commentaholic: 'Seridur! __Leader of the Order of the Virtuous Blood, creeper Altmer, and closet sparkly vampire.' - This quote contains some grammar adjustment courtesy of the hideous Grammer Nazi (deliberate misspelling) quoting it, but it's close enough :D ~ARTY~_

_**A little snippet for Commentaholic to prove my affiliation with the Ancient Language: **__Ach neo eitha orono ie wilae yauna onr lifa - __**If Idari was in Alagaesia she would surely say this XD**_

_**And some more Ancient Language for everyone else - and Commentaholic of course: **__Atra gülai un ilian tauthr ono un atra ono waíse sköliro frá rauthr. __**Because, unlike Eragon, I can get the blessing right...**_

**Sé mor'ranr ono finna un sé onr sverdar sitja hvass! **_(BTW, if you're planning on entering this into a translator you won't find it, however the closest you'll get is if you go from Icelandic to English)_

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Chapter 25

It was with the utmost shock that Raminus Polus found himself once more greeting an Altmeri vampire that he had sworn he would next see once he had been cured of his unusual disease. What surprised the Master Wizard still further was that he spoke with the Warlock in broad daylight and in clear view of the apprentices and magisters hurrying to and fro from their lessons on the arcane arts. He knew enough about the nature of vampires too to know exactly why the mage before him was not being affected by the sun's rays, but he dismissed this morbid thought quickly before greeting the Altmer as he always greated a fellow mage.

"Well met, Warlock," he said with a forced smile that appeared genuine to even those who knew him best and a slight polite incline of his Imperial head. "What brings you back to the University at this time?"

The High Elf did not speak for a moment and looked about shiftily like he had something sinister to hide even though he had approached Polus in an open, communal area. "The cure must be bought before it can be made," he said eventually, his voice low and indistinct. Raminus noted on a slightly happier note that he appeared to have found a way of controlling the vampiric hissing that had forced its way into his voice before. "The price is ten empty Grand Soul Gems."

Grand Soul Gems were difficult to come by, and almost indispensible to the budding mage when they were filled with the soul of some creature or other, usually a summoned daedra was prefered by most. The University, of course, owned several Grand Soul Gems, and most Mages Guild chapters owned at least one too, but they were not to be simply given to a witch on whichever whim she wished to claim ownership of at that precise moment.

"We cannot provide you with ten..." the Imperial replied gently. After his years of admitting new apprentices to the Arcane University, one would expect that he would find it easy to turn people away without what they had arrived for, but the job simply never got any easier and he had merely learnt to live with the responsibility as though it were just another useless part of his life. There was a pause before he added: "However I think the Arch Mage will allow the sanctioning of two to aid an important guild member such as yourself. He shall be glad to know that you have made progress towards a cure; your absense has been noted by many of the other mages about the place.

"Two?" the Warlock repeated with a nod to indicate his understanding and acceptance, though Raminus was sure that he could detect an undertone of disappointment in his words. "That is a gracious offer -" Once again the Imperial found it hard to believe that the Altmer was speaking for any reason other than the sake of politeness. "- I thank you for your kindness and understanding. I hope to be returning to the University soon. Have there been any more assaults by the necromancer cult in my absense?"

The Master Wizard smiled. "Once again I shall inform you that your loyalty to our guild is duly noted, however there is nothing that you would be able to do in your current state even if there had been attacks by necromancers. There have only been minor threats since your departure and some of our newest additions to the University have been dispatched to take care of them. Nothing for someone of your rank at all, Warlock. I wish you luck in your search and may all your efforts bear sweet fruit in their own good time - you cannot rush an alchemist even if you wish to."

"Thank you Master Wizard Polus. Your words are appreciated. As soon as I have the Soul Gems I'm afraid I must set off, as much as I would like to stay. I have many more gems to find and only a limited time in which to do so. I am also mildly wary of spending too much time in the sun at the moment, for obvious reasons, however I must spend my every possible moment to enjoy the civilization that abandoned me on that fateful day. I look forward to the day when I shall merely be a mage again; that day shall prove a happy occasion."

xxx

The Oblivion gate was a little way outside of Cheydinhal and so far no action appeared to have occured nearby save the odd sentient daedra chancing a step into Cyrodiil or a tree nearby bursting into flames due to the heat being radiated from the collosal structure nearby.

The Count's son, Farwil Indarys, stood on the walls of his city, gauntleted hands resting on the stones, to take in the sight before he and his knights assaulted the gate. It was something that he had always dreamt of, particularly after an amusing session in a tavern somewhere before heading off to bed. His medallion denoting his knighthood swung from his neck in plain sight, his signet ring denoting his kinship adourned a finger of his right hand, his dark hair swayed in the warm breeze caused by the Oblivion gate and his eyes burned like the hell he saw below. He had on his armour, plates of metal that he had nagged his father into providing for him; it gleamed from the polish that the servants had applied to it in its two years sitting on a shelf in Castle Cheydinhal. The Knights of the Thorn had not yet seen action since their foundation in 3E431, but Farwil was determined that today they would prove to the guards that they were more than a glorified club. Today they would show their fighting skills for the world to see; after today they would not be ridiculed any longer.

He turned at the sound of his knights calling his name. There were five of his comrades on the ground beneath the wall, but admittably he only knew one of them by name - Bremman was the one who usually dealt with the newer recruits to the order. One of the Knights of the Thorn had already expressed his distaste at going into Oblivion and Farwil had granted him leave on the condition that he protected Cheydinhal from the daedra that left the fiery portal after they had gone, though he knew that the Breton would probably not do anything to protect the city without his watchful gaze to correct his mistakes for him.

The six of them made for an odd group; two Bretons, three Imperials and a Dunmer. The Bretons were young Fighters Guild drop-outs, Farwil knew that much - apparently they had some kind of argument with Burz gro-Khash about wages and duties. One of the Imperials was young and couldn't have been more than a teenager, another was older and an ex-Legion member who had been forced to drop out after starting a fight with a fellow officer. The last Imperial was Bremman Senyan, a good friend of Farwil's who had been on the Cheydinhal City Watch until he had left to take up his duties with the Knights of the Thorn, a gifted swordsman with a noble heart and a solid resolve. He would have followed Farwil all the way to the deepest plains of Oblivion and back.

Now he was going to.

The three Imperials dispatched the daedra outside the gate before the others had even caught up and the six of them stared up at the swirling maelstrom of fire before them, almost paralysed with awe at the sight of it up close. Farwil led them closer to the gate before them and with a final, resounding 'Huzzah!' the luckless six disappeared through it to almost certain doom.

xxx

A red sky in the morning is never a good sign, and a sky swirling with red tongues of flame is obviously to be considered even worse whether it be morning, noon or night. The sky had not been red last time he had been in this city, which was in fact less than a day earlier, but this time the skies over Cheydinhal burned with almost unprecedented rage.

Turner knew what it meant. It was not the first time, and neither would it be the last time, that he would see an Oblivion gate. He stopped a good distance from it and weighed up his options quickly; he could enter the gate, close it and play the hero, he could go into the city and fetch the soldiers to deal with it or he could merely ignore it altogether and continue onto the Mages Guild in search of Grand Soul Gems. Standing before it he could only really narrow it down to one entirely viable option, and that was before he saw a gaggle of people run haphazrdly towards the gate and heard their leader shout some obscenity before they all ventured into it as though they had any idea what they were letting themselves in for, which they obviously didn't.

The Argonian sighed heavily and his hand reached instinctively to the hilt of the daedric sword at his hip which was now at long last ceasing to be a burden for him to carry about before dismounting his black horse and tying the creature to a nearby tree in an attempt to prevent it running away or being mistaken for one of the other black horses in the Cheydinhal stables which seemed dangerously close to being incinerated itself anyway.

He glanced about once more before dashing in the direction of the daedric creation himself, bow drawn in case he encountered some daedra from afar. Judging by the corpses on the ground the fools who had entered the gate had likely expected the stunted scamps they had just been fighting to be the only form of daedra they would meet. They were tragically mistaken; in a regular army the stunted scamps would be the equivalent of weak, untrained foot soldiers with substandard weaponry and no wish to be a part of this battle. Easy kills.

Outside the gates of Cheydinhal he could see a gang of guards amassing together to assault the daedra from the gate themselves, or to hold the gates of Cheydinhal if that failed. He knew they would not venture inside; they were on a payroll to protect and serve, not to put themselves deliberately into harms way and definitely not to go above and beyond the call of duty to leave Nirn and venture into Oblivion. From this distance he could not make out any of the guards individually, however he did make a note that Guard Captain Ulrich Leland - who would have been identifiable by the fact that he was the only Breton on the Cheydinhal Guard - was not present in any form. One of the other Guard Captains seemed to be commanding the group, though it was very obvious that none of them had any wish to be a part of this operation, except one of the guards who seemed to be rather more keen than the others.

_He'll be the first to die then_, Turner thought with a solemn sigh as he took out a scamp almost immediately as it emerged from the gate with a well placed arrow. He was almost too close to make the shot by now, but killing scamps was merely so easy that they could probably be shot with an arrow from only a foot away without the shooter being injured. Now he drew his sword and approached more slowly, aware that at any moment any manner of daedra could jump through the gate and tear him to shreds considering how light his armour was; his feet fell gently on the dry earth beneath the gate but any sound would have been drowned out by the roaring of the fire even if it was load enough to be heard.

"What am I letting myself in for this time?" he asked himself as he stepped through the sulphurous portal once again into the plains of Oblivion that were owned souly by Mehrunes Dagon: The Deadlands.

xxx

"Who do you suppose that strange figure that ran into the gate was then?" one guard asked another, nudging him in the ribs as they stood in a mock-up version of sentry duty in a half hearted attempt to protect their city

The other shrugged unhelpfully. "It wasn't a man or mer that's for sure," he said, speaking the obvious. "It had a tail."

"It was an Argonian," another added with an overzealous grin after eavesdropping on the conversation. He was a good fighter and had always felt that his skills had been wasted, so he saw today as the perfect opportunity to prove himself to his superiors - in particular Garrus Darelliun who seemed to be the only Guard Captain with enough common sense and battle experience to try to hold the gate. "I have a feeling I spoke with him yesterday. He reckons he'll be an unsung hero here, but I'm not sure."

"Well 'e sure ain't the 'Ero of Kvatch. We don't need no Argonian unsung 'eroes, we jus' need one female mer ta close tha' thing an' be done with i'," another eavesdropper spoke with an accent that he had clearly picked up from elsewhere in the province, though none of his comrades had yet to figure out precisely where that was.

The first guard smirked fiendishly and gestured for the others to draw nearer as he spoke. "I heard the Hero of Kvatch is a Dunmer riding on an otherworldly stallion with flaming red eyes and diamond tipped hooves. Apparently she can kill with a glance, make people obey her every command with some kind of mind control. I heard she can even murder someone by whistling at them. Her homeland got destroyed when the Ministry of Truth crashed into Vivec and now she's on a warpath and doesn't care who's in her way; she..."

"Is not superhuman," the over-enthusiatic one finished his sentence with a childish grin. "Killing someone with a glance? Otherworldly stallion? Mind control? Ridiculous. She's just good at fighting, that's all, and she might have an attitude problem, but I'm sure she isn't that bad. I'm sure you'd have an attitude problem if suddenly the world decided you were their only hope too!"

The guards were silenced suddenly as their captain walked past, a hand on the hilt of his sword and an almost pristine shield on his arm. Garrus looked at them critically before he spoke. "I have it on good authority that the Hero of Kvatch will be arriving here shortly to help us with our... problem. Please try to make this guard appear acceptable."

"But some Argonian's already gone inside, as have Indarys and his club members!" one of the guards moaned from the back of the cluster. "How many mortals can they send into Oblivion?"

Garrus shrugged. "The real question is probably just how many daedra can some _out_ of Oblivion before we lose this city to them. From now on keep your mouths shut and your eyes open; I want to do this with minimal losses."

xxx

The Hero of Kvatch had been more than glad to see the soldiers bearing the insignia of County Skingrad riding past her in the opposite direction while on her way to Cheydinhal from Bruma. They hadn't seen her, not properly anyway; she had told Shadowmere to run as quickly as he could manage, and a horse like Shadowmere could manage some pretty amazing speeds when he put his mind to it. At the speed her horse managed to maintain she had reached the city in just over eight hours, which was usually unheard of when one had to travel from the Jerall Mountains, through the Great Forest, across the Heartlands and the Nibenay Basin until almost the foot of the Valus Mountains. She had stuck to the road to avoid distractions, and Shadowmere was either too fast or too menacing for highwaymen to even attempt their luck at taking on the Dunmer riding him; Idari Mortha had yet to figure out which it was.

Cheydinhal was one of the cities she had always felt most comfortable in. The count and the guards had been bribed enough to not ask questions about the mysterious people hanging about the abandoned house in black armour carrying rather vast arsenals of weaponry about with them; those who didn't need to know were simply taken care of efficiently if they began asking the wrong questions. Now that everyone in the Cheydinhal sanctuary was dead Idari began wondering whether or not she would be so free to move about the town, but she suspected that this matter was probably carried out by the Speaker assigned to each sanctuary rather than the members within, though she doubted Lucien would care anymore.

Any regular person might have been struck with fear at the sight of the towering wall of flames stretching into a reddened sky before them however the Hero of Kvatch merely dismounted her horse fluidly and drew her Akaviri katana from its sling over her shoulder - she was not nearly tall enough to wear it at her hip like the Blades did - and assessing the situation languidly. A group of Cheydinhal guards stood stationed outside the city walls, but all bar one seemed to be doing very little in the way of actually serving their city like they ought to be. She approached the gate at a relaxed pace after sternly telling her horse that he could join the battle if he wished as long as he did not run off, almost as if he could understand her; anybody else might have thought her crazy, but she knew full well that he understood. Besides, she could tell exactly where he would go if he got bored and strolled off; they were that close to Fort Farragut after all. She saw an arrow in the corpse of a scamp that she recognised immediately and frowned deeply; she had instructed him to find a cure, not to enter Oblivion, and in doing so he had delayed the rescue of her brother - because she still refused to believe that he might be dead - until he had actually got around to finding this witch. She prayed for his sake that he had at least had the common sense to make some effort towards this cure or she might just have to kill him for it.

Aside the scamp she only saw other smaller, stunted scamps that had been poorly butchered by an unskilled swordsman on the ground, and there was no doubt in her mind that this was the handiwork of the count's idiot son and his cronies. She might not have hated Farwil so much if it weren't for her enforced Telvanni heritage, but it seemed that he came from a prominant Redoran family and that his father had converted to House Hlaalu in order to get on better terms with King Helseth Hlaalu, something which had ultimately ended in him coming to rule over County Cheydinhal, and so Farwil Indarys was technically a member of _both_ the enemy Great Houses on Vvardenfell and thus held no place in the female Telvanni's hardened heart. She then ran through the burning gate before she changed her mind about saving his life.

xxx

This excursion into Oblivion had probably not been the best idea that Farwil Indarys had ever had in his lifetime. It was far from the glory-bringing moment that he had expected it to be and now he was bruised and battered, kept alive only by his faithful friends - who no doubt knew what the punishment would be if the Count found out that they had left his son for dead in Oblivion and scarpered - and a fair amount of running for his life. The ones who had not died already had made it into a system of caves and become separated by a raging clannfear and a larger scamp than they had been used to fighting outside Cheydinhal. Bremman alone stayed with him now as they listened to the tortured screams of one of the others mingled in with the sounds of tearing flesh and the ravenous snaps of the clannfear's powerful beak. The Imperial was badly wounded with a deep incision to his arm that was losing blood with every passing minute and what was no doubt a fractured collarbone from battling with a different clannfear in a smaller space than was physically possible using such a weapon. Farwil was not wounded severely, and most of the blood on his armour was not his but rather that of his fallen comrades one and all; his nose was broken and bleeding from accidentally taking an elbow to the face during a battle, but it was not the first time so he had learnt to live with it.

He looked at his friend with a heavy heart; he only knew spells that would heal his own injuries and even then they were not very efficient and would leave him with a wave of nausea rather inappropriate for battle. Though neither of them spoke the words they both knew that Bremman was doomed to die in this scorched wasteland, and Farwil was most likely to follow soon after. The Count's son had never seen fit to learn much magic; his father was House Hlaalu - and Great House full of merchants and traders - and he had been mollycoddled his entire life into thinking that he would never have _need_ of the spells that he could have learnt. He knew how to heal himself after one too many run-ins with his father following street brawls in his teenage years, but his expertise mainly consisted of cuts and bruises. People didn't pick a fight with him in Cheydinhal, he picked fights with them, but now here, without his status to protect him from harm, he felt surprisingly vulnerable.

Bremman coughed with a nasty hack that made him sound as if he had been smoking raw moon sugar for years and began fiddling with the fastening of his left pauldron, which was smashed inwards and covered in flecks of dried blood; his left arm was useless now and hung limply at his side as they sat huddled on the charred ground awaiting the inevitable return of the daedra. Farwil loosened the fastenings for him once he saw his friend struggling and the Imperial shot his a grateful smile that almost turned into a grimace as he prized the useless piece of armour from his shoulder to reveal flesh blackened with bruises beneath.

Bremman sighed. "It was an honour to fight at your side, Sir Farwil," he said awkwardly between hacking coughs and shots of agony that were strong enough to make his whole body contort in pain.

"The honour is all mine Bremman," the Dunmer replied in a low voice. Inwardly he knew that this dire situation was all his fault and the turmoil he faced was just as - if not more so - excruciating as Bremman's injuries. "You are a good man, a true friend, and I couldn't have asked for a better person to go to their peril with me..."

The Imperial soldier forced a small but sincere smile. "Sir Farwil we must not begin this morbid talk off death. You and I both know that it is not over until it's over," he said, digging the tip of his iron sword in the ground beside him and using it as leverage to pull himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he did so. "We mustn't sit here and mope. Let's make sure we go out with a bang."

xxx

_That's the third body_, Turner thought as he stepped over the corpse of a young Breton who didn't appear to be older than twenty and was very obviously dead. _How many went in here? Six?_

He stood at the doorway to a network of caves with a burning wasteland stretching as far as the eye could see to his left and a bubbling pit of orange lava engulfing the view to his right, the Sigil Keep looming like an unwelcome visitor on the hazy horizon on the opposite shoreline. He did not wish to enter the caves considering the corpses that had been littered in the wide open spaces outdoors; it was all he could do to stop himself vomiting now. Instead he looked for a route over the top of the rock in which the door was imbedded and his golden eyes quickly settled on the section of the rock that seemed to have a shallow enough gradient for him to scramble up.

_Oh well_, he thought with a simple shrug. _If I don't make it over first time then at least I can improve my efficiency at athletics_.

xxx

This Oblivion world seemed simpler than some of the other that she had been in before; a path led to a cave led to a bridge led to the Sigil Keep, no jumping, Water Walking or levitation involved. She entered the caves without a thought for any alternate route. She had been in Oblivion worlds like this before and she knew by now that going through the caves was almost always the best option where staying alive was concerned. She stepped over the corpses without a second thought except that perhaps the Count's son was not yet one of them, and if she did notice the footprints left by a less than subtle Argonian at the base of the rockface then she didn't seem at all concerned by them.

By her standards the cave was almost empty; at the point where she dropped through a hole from the upper level to the lower level she had barely fought with a single daedra and had not even come across the bodies of the Dunmer she was searching for or any of the rest of his 'knights'. Idari had returned her katana to its position on her shoulder now that she was in the confined space of the caves in favour of a silver shortsword that she always carried in case of emergencies like being attacked by ghosts; anyone who knew anything knew that ghosts could only be damaged by silver or enchanted weapons, and silver was so much easier to come by these days. Immediately upon entering the lower level she was hit by the stench of dead things, though what things precisely she couldn't tell even if she'd wanted to; after stepping over the bloodied corpse of a clannfear runt followed by that of a regular clannfear, both with incisions in some various point of their flesh that had ultimately killed them, to reached the conclusion that at least one of the merry band of so-called heroes must still be alive.

She walked a little further into the cave complex and couldn't help but notice a trail of blood leading from a dented pauldron that had been disguarded on the ground further back. As she stepped around a corner she was immediately aware of an iron sword swinging in the direction of her head; she caught the blow on her own sword of course and managed with surprising ease to disarm her opponent in a single swing. Her attacker was an Imperial man with a gaping wound to his left arm and behind him stood a Dunmeri man with black hair and green skin; though she knew who at least of them was immediately they looked at her with a manner that almost made them appear horrorstruck.

"Who are you, stranger?" the Imperial man asked weakly, his voice gravelly and strained with pain.

Though Idari smiled beneath her hood, the darkness surrounding them made her gesture almost invisible. "I am the Hero of Kvatch," she said nonchalantly. "Indarys, you and I both know that you would have been long dead by now if it weren't for your little lackey here. He's clearly wounded so you mustn't rely on him so heavily."

Farwil scowled. "Sir Bremman is a fine example of everything we Knights of the Thorn stand for."

"Sure," Idari smirked, mumbling the words to a strong convalescence spell that she cast over the Imperial man and then a weaker one which landed on Farwil. "Coming in here with rank amateurs was foolish at best, fatal at worst. I've seen the corpses. One of them could have barely been fifteen years old..."

The Dunmer huffed indignantly. "All of my knights are selected carefully. Hundreds of applicants apply to join my brotherhood but only a few succeed in making it the final step. We only failed because one of our number chose to stay and defend Cheydinhal..."

"The wisest of you all then," the assassin replied condescendingly. "Now, we must keep moving before Dagon has a chance to send his army at us."

"Huzzah!" Farwil said enthusiastically with what was almost a smile. "Now the Knights of the Thorn shall go down in history as the saviours of Cheydinhal!"

xxx

Turner was debating the drop from the top of the rock that he had managed to climb onto when the door beneath him swung open and three figures stepped out. One he recognised instantly as Idari Mortha, assassin and part time saviour of Cyrodiil, and of the other two he assumed that the Dark Elven man was the supposed son of Count Andel Indarys. The Imperial was probably just a member of his club.

"Sister!" he called down to the Hero of Kvatch.

She looked up and saw him, her red eyes narrowly slightly. "What are you doing here, pondscum?" she asked him tersely. By now the others had taken notice of the other armoured person atop the rock who had called their Hero 'Sister'. They couldn't see any resemblance.

"Popped in for a pleasant stroll," Turner replied with a grin, jumping from the lowest point of the cliff that he could find and slipping to the floor on his landing, injuring nothing but his pride.

Idari resisted a smirk. She wouldn't go as far as to say she'd _missed_ the clumsy Argonian and all the antics that went with him, but it definitely felt reassuring to know that somebody she could at least trust to keep a secret had got her back, and that she didn't have to spend all the time alone with Farwil and his companion who had yet to say anything except a muttered 'thanks' upon being healed.

"You picked a perfect spot for a walk," she told him sarcastically as she watched him pull himself to his feet and brush himself off. "Tell me, from up there could you see the daedra on that bridge? The element of surprise could be useful here."

Turner took a moment to collect himself before speaking again. "There were about two dremora on there, what looked like a clannfear and a massive daedroth... Other than that, a fairly reasonable place for a spot of recreation."

"Well at least you have a sword this time..." Idari sighed, ignoring the terrified expressions of the 'knights' beside her. Turner just rolled his eyes.

Farwil at last ventured to speak. "Excuse me Argonian, but who in Oblivion are you?"

The Argonian opened his mouth as if to speak but was silenced as the Dunmer cut him off. "That's the Hero of Skingrad," she told them definitively. "You probably won't have heard of him yet, but I'm sure they'll stick him in the Courier one day." Turner smiled inwardly; that was probably the biggest compliment he was ever going to get from her. "Now pondscum, when we get onto that bridge I'm going to take out the dremora, and I want you to concentrate on the lesser daedra - I know you can cope with them. Farwil, try not to do anything stupid, and no yelling 'huzzah', because I will not be held responsible when all the daedra decide you make an easy target..."

"And what of me?" Bremman spoke up. Now that his left arm was fully healed, he had decided to make full use of it wherever possible.

The female assassin frowned. "What's your name, Imperial?"

"Bremman Senyan, miss," he replied politely.

"And can you wield a sword, Bremman Senyan? Basic guard training does not count. Have you have experience of fighting daedra like these before today? Your injuries in there were severe and you would have surely been dead by now if I had not healed you. Your instincts alone will not keep you alive out there with dremora running about, you have to know what you're doing. I shall task you with keeping Idarys alive and out of trouble."

"I do not require babysitting Dunmer!" the count's son objected indignantly. "I am perfectly capable of..."

"Falling off the bridge?" Idari suggested with a malicious smirk. "Best keep a look out Bremman. The Count will not be best pleased if we bring back his son's corpse. Right then, let's get moving."

* * *

_Author Note: That was a long-ish chapter with a long-ish author note on the beginning. I hope y'all liked it. I gave up on the NaNoWriMo. I didn't have an idea, and I've already wasted five days writing this! I should probably get back to my original fiction, but writing for you guys makes the job so much more worthwhile._

_First off, thanks. Last chapter was one of my more successful endeavours. It only received 4 reviews, sure, but 2 of those reviewers were entirely new! So y'know, two regulars and two new ones seems pretty acceptable to me :D My third regular who didn't review yet - you know who you are - don't worry about it. Any other chapter I might have been pissed off, but I'm in a good mood today so :P Thanks to DualKatanas, Commentaholic, ZWig and Diana - keep it up, ya?_

_Second off, I took a couple of liberties with the races of the Knights of the Thorn. Here's a quote from UESP for you: **Amminus Gregory tells you that Farwil "entered the Oblivion Gate with six other men", but only Bremman and four bodies can be found. Eight Fallen Knights are defined in the CS, however. **Thus, I made them up!_

_I shall end this stupid author's note by saying one thing: if you've alerted or favourited this story I would appreciate a review. If I've alerted or faved you and not reviewed then let me know! I probably just forgot! Also, and here's a newsflash for ya, I know who you are. I get emails too y'know? XD If you've reviewed already, you're a legend. Keep it up! **Whoa, we're ALMOST there. Whoa, livin' on a prayer** - these lyrics belong to Bon Jovi (apart from the word 'almost', that was me). 10 reviews to go and 8 chapters. I think I might just make it y'know XD_

_~ARTY~ **Also, I would just like a put a little patent on this signature. It's MINE, got it? XD You know if this applies to you. (Just kidding, nick it if ya want, I don't care) :P**_


	26. Sigillum Sanguis

_**Diana: **__TWO reviews? Two! I love you! Argh, so much closer to my goal now! *does little happy dance that now next chapter she'll be over 90* Yah, make an account, write a story. Ah'll read it fer ya if ya'd like :D *grin* (sorry about the failed cockney-ness. I blame the play) You're a spontaneous writer? Heck. I don't even know what chapter 26 is gonna be about (7/11/10, just so's you know when I wrote this relative to the chapter) Seanturco's dialogue is MEANT to seem forced. Farwil's a prat, and I can never keep him alive without consoling to resurrect him (which doesn't work, because the quest updates when he dies). Yes, I console things too, but I can play without it. I only casually add nirnroots to my inventory when standing near Sinderion and casually 'killall' when doing a Fighters Guild quest to knock off some trolls in a mine :L Oh yeah, and Artemis Fowl is legendary :P ~ARTY~_

_Quote that has nothing to do with anything: __**That's the last thing this country needs, a cock in a frock on a rock**__ - Bernadette - Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (The only link I can see is that Bernadette is played by Terence Stamp, who voices Mankar Camoran)_

_

* * *

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Chapter 26

The daedra never knew what hit them. Some of them had been there in Kvatch or in Skingrad, but that was against one hero or maybe even two; this time they were faced with four armed mortals running towards them with what almost seemed to be a glint of fiery madness in every one of their eyes. The female Dunmer they had witnessed before; she was the Hero of Kvatch and had thwarted their master on more than one occasion. The Argonian too had been in Oblivion before, it was obvious by the way he held himself and the fact that he was carrying the sword of one of the dremora kyn. The other two seemed deeply troubled as they ran forwards, the Dunmer in particular, and the resulting effect was that many of the daedra had already fallen by the time these two 'knights' reached their locations.

The Argonian made his way towards the 'massive daedroth' first, daedric sword drawn in his right hand and a determined look on his face. The female Dunmer was quicker than he was and ran full pelt towards a dremora with deep crimson skin and an almost full set of daedric armour, a daedric mace in his hand and words in an ancient tongue escaping his lips as he shouted to his kyn about the demise of his foolish enemy. Bremman Senyan approached the clannfear with gritted teeth; it was a clannfear that had almost ended his life in the series of caves and a clannfear that had taken the lives of many of his fellow knights. Farwil just followed, an iron sword in his hand and a wooden shield on his left arm, his red eyes reflecting the full fury of the world he was now a part of and the blood staining his cuirass a constant reminder that it was his own misguided stupidity that had led to the demise of every single one of his comrades. Suddenly his eyes came to rest on the fourth and final opponent on the bridge, a dremora in a mages' robe who seemed to only be flinging spells at the Hero of Kvatch as she fought tirelessly against a creature that was almost a head taller than her and no doubt twice as strong; he knew what the do now, he headed into battle.

Turner slashed at the daedroth with slightly more precision than he usually possessed; he put this down to the fact that he was so close to the edge of the bridge and thus the drop into the boiling lava beneath that he actually couldn't afford to be his usual clumsy self if he valued his life. Even if he could make himself fireproof, he didn't expect that even Argonians could breathe lava. The daedroth roared ferociously and charged in his direction, teeth bared, the whole bridge quaking slightly under its weight. Turner didn't move yet, he knew timing was the key here and he also knew that his moving would likely lead to an impromptu swim in the fiery substance below; his feet were planted firmly on the stone walkway and his heavy sword was held up with two hands for extra precision. Just as the daedroth was about to strike him down he took a single step to his left, deliberately putting a distance between himself and the steep drop, and swung his weapon over the monster's unprotected back, wincing slightly at the growl of pain that followed but nonetheless willing his sword to drive deeper into the creature's flesh and make the noise stop. Its head reared and snapped towards him, almost making contact with his arm until he withdrew his sword and pierced the soft flesh of its neck with his now reddened blade, watching the mortally wounded beast stagger about blindly before slumping to the ground. He didn't take the moment to savour his victory, instead whipping around to see Idari still locked in fierce combat with a dremora and Bremman standing triumphant over a now eviscerated clannfear, wiping his sword on his dented and bloodstained greaves with a look of utter disdain across his face.

A moment later he noticed Farwil.

The count's son was approaching the second, weaker dremora on the bridge with his usual battle cry of 'Huzzah!' and a pathetic iron sword in his hand and the seeming determination to do the being some damage. Turner's breath caught in his throat for a moment, and a second later his bow seemed to appear in his hands, an arrow nocked and ready to fly; though he searched for a clear shot on the spell flinger that now seemed to have noticed the male Dark Elf running foolishly towards him, he could not find one since Farwil didn't seem to have the ability to run in a straight line. He vaguely comprehended Bremman shouting some curse before rushing past him too, again blocking the flight path of any arrow he might loose at the dremora.

_Sufficed to say_, he thought bitterly for a moment. _This was a lot simpler when it was just Idari and I_. He ran past the Hero of Kvatch without a second thought, leaving her to fight her own battle. _I know _she_ will survive this. It's _them_ I'm worried about_.

Farwil had not gotten close enough to swing his sword when he was hit in the chest with a fireball from the dremora that seemed entirely unconcerned by the three mortals heading in his direction. The Dunmer stumbled slightly but carried on unperturbed, glad that his race was gifted a resistance to fire for their living under a great volcano since the dawn of their existance. The same volcano that had not only destroyed their homeland once, but several times now. The dremora scowled and another fireball left his fingertips, flying towards the Imperial man behind instead of the Dark Elf before him. Bremman jumped out of the way, rolling to safety dangerously close to the edge of the bridge and almost overbalancing himself into the fiery pit below. He yelled something at the 'knight' ahead of him that almost nobody could comprehend before leaping back to his feet and heading towards the dremora at the sprint. Turner was a few steps behind them, subconsciously slinging his bow back over his shoulder and drawing his daedric sword once more, knowing full well that Farwil would do next to no damage to the dremora and most likely end up falling from the bridge; he also knew that he himself was not capable of casting to correct spell to save the fool's life if that were to ever happen. Idari could, but she was busy.

Unsurprisingly Farwil reached the dremora first, his blade glancing off the daedra's blood red skin as if it were wearing armour instead of just a robe. In a second a red fist connected with his stomach and sent him sprawling across the ground, winded, a spell being growled in an ancient daedric tongue that would almost instantly lead to the death of the heir to County Cheydinhal. Bremman plunged the tip of his blade into the side of the dremora before him just before the incantation was completed, jarring the creature to one side so that its spell did not hit its intended target but rather the base of the Sigil Keep behind it. The dremora exploded with anger at the fresh injury to its now bloody side and batted the Imperial away like nothing more than a child's play thing; the ex-guard's feet stopped on the edge of the bridge instinctively and he swung his arms almost comically to prevent himself overbalancing over the edge, the heat radiating from the pool below enough incentive to push his body that little bit harder to prevent himself from falling. Farwil was scrambling to his feet as Turner reached the dremora, daedric sword in hand and a deep frown in his scaled face. He swung his blade as the dremora began to chant the words to another heinous spell that would more than likely end his life there and then, on an accursed bridge in the centre of Oblivion; the sword sliced cleanly through the dremora's tough skin and very nearly severed its left arm, warranting a scream of pain and a torrent of red blood. The dremora sidestepped his second swing blindly, now clutching his arm in an attempt to stem the bleeding and biting back a string of daedric curses, inadvertantly closing the gap between his feet and the edge of the bridge where Bremman had now regained full control of his balance and was watching the scene unfold.

The Dark Elf stepped forward now and hit the dremora with the flat of his wooden shield, ignoring the cracking noises it made as it struck the daedra and causing the wounded dremora to stagger sideways ever closer to the edge of the bridge. Turner saw what was going to happen before it even did. The dremora backed itself up against the edge of the bridge and a final hit from Farwil twinned with Bremman's extended foot sent the unfortunate being tumbling over the edge into the lava below with a chilling scream. The Argonian grabbed the back of Indarys' cuirass before the Dunmer managed to cause himself to fall into the lava as well, steadying him just in time.

The three of them turned, unsurprised to see that Idari still seemed to be having next to no luck with her dremora. It wasn't that she was being overpowered, but she wasn't doing any overpowering herself either; she wasn't tiring, but neither was her opponent. She was fighting with both swords now, Turner noted, something which she very rarely did. Before he could comprehend what he was doing his bow was in his hands again, the same arrow nocked as before as he lined up the shot, knowing he had more chances of hitting his target around the well trained assassin than he ever would with those two 'knights' who now seemed utterly out of breath following a three against one fight in which neither of them had played any real part until the last moment.

To his frustration the dremora moved at the wrong moment and his arrow spun off target uselessly, serving no purpose but to distract the creature just long enough for Idari to get an unblocked slash in, catching his neck with enough force to draw blood but not quite enough to kill. The assassin loosed a bolt of lightning at her opponent, taking him off guard slightly as the charge ricocheted around his metallic armour. Turner ran forward now, sword now replacing his bow as his weapon of choice, ignoring the Hero of Kvatch as she shouted some unintelligable instructions to him; he suspected she was probably telling him to leave well enough alone and chose to ignore her anyway.

Farwil and Bremman watched silently as the two figures clad in identical black armour took out the dremora together. The female knew what she was doing and was stronger than she appeared from a distance, ultimately providing the killing blow that would sever the dremora's head and send it bouncing over the edge of the bridge. The Argonian with her still seemed unused to fighting; his hands hesitated as he decided which weapon would be best suited to the job and he almost seemed unable to bring himself to finish the daedra off in the end. The dremora's headless corpse spluttered unceremoniously and blood spewed out across the black stone; both knights took note of the fact that both heroes seemed to have no intention of allowing the blood to touch them, both stepping aside before it reached them.

"Do _none_ of you listen to me?" Idari demanded in utter disbelief. "First up, I said no 'huzzah's, but lo and behold you're out there shouting it for everything your life's worth," she snapped at Farwil before rounding on Turner. "And I told _you_ to stick to lesser daedra and yet I see you fighting _both_ dremoras. Why did you try to shoot it anyway? You know arrows do nothing here, I don't even know why you don't just invest in a better bow and better arrows or just leave the damned thing behind!"

The Argonian shrugged. "We survived, didn't we?" he suggested languidly. By now he was more than used to her string of criticisms that seemed to stream from her mouth after every single fight they had been in together. Mostly he had taken to ignoring her. "Besides, your plan was not very well thought through. I _told_ you there were _two_ dremora and you treated the situation like there would only be one. Farwil, Bremman, you shouldn't have done what you did - it was foolish and utterly ridiculous and you're lucky to still be alive right now - but at the end of the day... we all survived it."

Farwil huffed indignantly, folding his arms. "I'll have you know that my knights and I undergo intense physical training for moments like this," he insisted, though the expression on his face told the real story. "Our comrades fell in an ambush; we were outnumbered almost ten to one!"

The Hero of Kvatch just rolled her eyes. "I doubt that Indarys. At most I saw the corpses of ten daedra which, I might add, were not in the same place as the corpses of your so-called 'knights'. If you had undergone any real training you would have been able to cope with an '_ambush_' with ease. I wouldn't mind betting that your father just paid your trainers to boost your confidence rather than your skill; no-one dares disobey a count." There was a pause as all eyes hovered on Farwil, waiting for him to make some form of retort to her comments. When none came Idari continued: "Right, in there is the Sigil Keep. From now on we'll be fighting in more cramped spaces, so I want you 'knights' to bring up the rear and see that we aren't attacked from behind. Follow me and keep close. Pondscum, I'm not so worried about you this time since you know what you're doing... try not to lose your sword though."

xxx

Seanturco made his way through the Imperial City as swiftly as he could manage with as little fuss as possible. He had three Soul Gems now: two from Raminus Polus and another he had managed to receive directly from Arch Mage Hannibal Traven. He didn't doubt that Raminus had told the Arch Mage of his slight _problem_, but he was shocked that Traven cared enough to speak with him in his current state _and_ give him a Soul Gem for his troubles. Apparently his deeds had warranted him some attention from all the right members of the guild.

Hannibal Traven was a Breton man with a shock of white hair, a kindly face and a rather extensive reputation not only throughout Cyrodiil but also throughout Tamriel. He was particularly noticeable for having banned necromancy entirely from Cyrodiil, granting him more than a few enemies who sought to practice necromancy and be members of the everyday community, often the Arcane University too; his actions had only succeeded in driving the necromancer cult further underground.

Seanturco seemed to have had more than his fair share of close encounters with necromancers. While attempting to receive his recommendation he had almost been drowned by one, the pair responsible for constructing his mages' staff had been murdered by some and he had been left to deal with the rest, he had been attacked by the Count of Skingrad's steward - who, it turned out, was secretly a necromancer too - while on a mission that he had no idea was even going on, he had been sent to investigate a necromancy ritual to create Black Soul Gems and ended up fighting his way to freedom, he had put an end to the suffering of a mage who had been turned into a worm thrall by necromancers for being an informant... he didn't doubt that he hadn't seen the last of the necromancers either. It was in an attempt to fight the necromancer threat that he had first been infected with Porphyric Haemophilia, taking care of a problem for Janus Hassildor involving some meddling vampire hunters and a nearby cove of vampires, but he had only found out one thing: _The King of Worms had returned_.

The King of Worms was just a legend from way back during the Warp in the West in High Rock, a figure necromancers still worshipped but of whom there was no evidence of his still being alive today. Not yet anyway. Mannimarco was his name, he was supposedly an Altmer and if he were still alive today he would be over 1,130 years old. He was said to be one of the most powerful mages to have ever lived, capable of almost unthinkable spells and yet rotten to his core, evil beyond imagining, and maybe even _immortal_ - something Seanturco doubted highly. Still, if an average necromancer could defeat death with simply a few words, imagine what the _king_ of all necromancers could achieve...

The Imperial City was as bustling as he remembered it to be with people going about their daily lives and chores, though overall the atmosphere was slightly more subdued than it had been before. Then again, the news was that a large Oblivion gate had opened dangerously close to the city's perimeter and yet High Chancellor Ocato did not seem too interested in sending troops to destroy it, or to help Bruma defend itself. How did an Altmer end up running the Imperial province? Nobody quite knew.

If you want something sold then the only place to go is the Market District in the Imperial City. Located slightly north of the Arena it provides the perfect place for observers to spend their winnings and for combatants to buy the weapons that they use in their battles. The range of shops is wide and the products they sell are diverse: everything from useless rolls of cloth to powerful staffs to glass armour can be found there if you know where to look. Seanturco stood in front of the Mystic Emporium gazing at the sign above the doorway sheepishly before pushing the door open gently and slipping inside.

_Here goes nothing_, he thought to himself as he swallowed back the lump that had formed in his throat and adjusted his hood to hide his eyes. _Today I either function fully in society or I die trying... and with those odds, what else can I do?_

xxx

Farwil Indarys staggered blindly towards the black orb that the Hero of Kvatch had directed him to and hesitated - it was engulfed in the column of flame, the same column of flame that he had watched claim the lives of more than a couple of the daedra he had seen perish since his entry into the Deadlands. The other three were still fighting, but only the female seemed to be winning; the Argonian was almost at a stalemate with his opponent and the Imperial seemed to be allowing the creature he was fighting to get the better of him. She shouted at him again, simplifying her previous instructions to a patronising notion that even a preschooler could understand, but Farwil stood dumbstruck, watching the fighting with intense interest. This time the Argonian shouted at him, narrowly avoiding a blow to the chest and returning with a slash of his own weapon. Still the count's son did nothing, watching his friend and fellow knight lose ground head over heels against a flame atronach that fired almost constant spells at him without tiring and that he couldn't actually get close enough to to attack. Of the three daedra they were fighting, the flame atronach was the weakest by far, but it seemed almost illogical to leave the Imperial to battle with something that he couldn't even touch; the Hero of Kvatch would probably have been the best option, she could have used magic against it.

Bremman took a fireball to his unprotected shoulder and staggered backwards with the sheer force and the crippling wave of pain that followed almost immediately. At that moment Farwil returned to reality with a jolt and spun on his heels smartly, reaching his gauntleted hand through the flame that he was surprised did not burn and grabbed ahold of the black stone in the centre, plucking it from its position, shocked that it was completely cold to the touch. Flame erupted through the ceiling and the ground began to quake beneath their feet as the gateway to Nirn crumbled around them. The battles continued though, and the daedra grew more angry and more relentless as their world began to collapse around them. Turner received a blow to his right arm from a daedric mace, the sound of shattering bone barely audible above the rushing fire around them and he felt a wave of pain and nausea engulf him, only just avoiding the blow that would have smashed his skull in and praying to the gods he did not believe in that this torment would end soon, ignoring the fact that the count's son had run forward and picked up his fallen sword for him. The Hero of Kvatch finally plunged both her swords into the stomach of the dremora she was battling and withdrew them with disdain, allowing the now eviscerated corpse to fall to the ground, still twitching as the daedra died painfully on the hard stone ground.

It was at that moment that the plains of Oblivion disappeared from beneath them and the walls of Cheydinhal appeared in their sightline - truly a sight for sore eyes. The Argonian clutched his broken arm in pain, barely able to remain standing as he fought against the urge to vomit violently. Farwil held the bloody daedric sword in both hands and yet could still barely lift it, his eyes were closed as he sucked in the first non-sulphurous air he had encountered for what seemed like hours but was actually nearer days; his own sword was firmly in its scabbard and had barely used, his shield had been abandoned, his armour was stained with the blood of others and his medallion was long lost. However in essence his knights had achieved what they had intended to: they had closed the gate and saved Cheydinhal.

A guard ran towards them and whooped; he was Imperial, roughly in his early thirties and one of the few people who didn't actually care just how much the Hero of Kvatch glared at him with her burning red eyes as she was doing at this moment.

"We meet again, Argonian," he said with a slight grin, taking a look at the wounds on the four newcomers who were blackened with soot from Oblivion. However bad the wounds were, he didn't seem to bothered by them and did not drop his bemused demeanour for a moment. "Ohtesse in the chapel is a fine healer. She's been helping us with our wounded here since you left and she can easily see to those injuries you've got..."

"Sorry, who do you think you are?" Idari demanded, anger clouding both her voice and her expression.

The Imperial man snapped to attention instinctively. "Septimus Serocold, ma'am," he told her formally with a smile still fixed on his face as he spoke. "The Count requested that you speak with him when you return, but I guess you should go to Ohtesse first. That's a nasty break you've got there, Argonian."

"You don't say," the woman snapped back after watching Turner open his mouth as if to speak and recoil before he was truly sick. "Indarys is fine, he can go to his father. If his father wishes to speak to me then I suggest you send him to me. I haven't the time to stand around talking with nobility."

Farwil jumped slightly at the mention of his name and his eyes flew open, he dropped the daedric sword to the ground and looked up at his city. The walls were blackened from daedric assaults and the ground was charred and burnt, guards milled about, hopping over the bodies of daedra and dead comrades. His stomach twisted into a knot as he thought of the men and women he had led to their deaths in Oblivion but his red eyes burned with a passion that was unusual for the boy. He looked back at Bremman sadly and was glad to see that he still lived, even if he was the only other Knight of the Thorn to do so; now he fully understood what the Hero of Kvatch had said to him when they had first met: _"The wisest of you all then."_ She was right, of course. Jhared Strongblade was probably the most intelligent of all his followers, even if his undying loyalty was of question. Still, the more Farwil thought about it, intelligent knights were probably better than loyal knights anyway. What use was a knight who couldn't think for themselves?

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_Author Note: A short one, I know, but I'm so unbelievably busy this week that there's not really much else that I can write. Plus, it kind of draws to a natural conclusion there and the last one was longer than average so... Uhm, the bit in the middle with Seanturco was written from memory since I didn't have internet connection; I changed bits after I looked up some of it, but some might still be wrong. If you notice anything let me know and I'll change it. Stupid me for trying to write in a little bit of lore without any research. Next week I am going to be BUSY AS HELL. So don't expect a chapter very quickly. I missed an entire week of homework for this accursed musical and I'm gonna spend next week catching up instead of writing. Don't get me wrong, I love the musical, but it's getting frustrating having literally no time, about as much sleep and endless songs going around in my head at all hours. So I haven't checked the spelling and grammar here since if I do I shall inevitably fall asleep and that would be bad since I have a performance soon..._

_OK, this chapter in theory will be the one to tip me over 90. The person to give me my 91st review I will literally love forever and 'you'll be remembered in history' (sorry, My Fair Lady quote, woohoo, not.). Oh great. Now I'm gonna be singing an annoying song with the lyrics 'forever and ever you'll stay in my heart' until I go to my performance. Fun fun fun. Just proving a point to someone I PM-ed earlier that I quote EVERYTHING, if you were wondering where that came from. My last chapter was my most successful one to date. 6 reviews - but TWO were from one person XD. Chapters 1 and 2 have 6 reviews each, but that's as of about two weeks ago, not in one go like chapter 25._

_This chapter ain't as great as the last one, I know. I liked the last one a lot and this one... I like too actually, but not quite as much. Lemme know what y'all think_

**_Here's a new thing for y'all: _**Song I'm listening to right now: _Ain't That a Kick In The Head - Robbie Williams_


	27. The Mystic Emporium

_Author Note: Well, I have a horrid feeling this author's note might be a long one at the beginning. I like having the longer ones at the end... but... I DID IT, I DID IT, I DID IT, I DID IT, I SAID THAT I WOULD DO IT AND INDEED I DID. If you reviewed me then you've already heard my singing this song - it's from My Fair Lady *shock horror. I'm so surprised that I quoted it. NOT* I now have FIVE reviewers (it's a low number, I know, but it means a lot to me), so y'know what, let's keep it up! I would say to push 100, but I'm on 94 already! So let's go, the sky's the limit._

_I usually berate people who stick all their story stats on their stories, but for this chapter only I feel like adding them, since I'm in a good mood about reaching 90. So... (as of 19/11/10) Hits: 3,084 (I might add that 1,085 of them are for chapter 1); Visitors - good question, I'll say visitors for November: 157 (and only SIX have dropped by to inform me of their presence); Reviews: 94; Words: 128,915; Faves: 14; Alerts: 11. Basically the faves equal my best received story so far - TEOTW - with 4 fewer alerts. Then again, alerts mean nought. My alert list is bloody long, my faves list is exclusive_

_Oh yeah, and my 91st review came from ZWig, but don't worry, you're all great :P_

_**Quote: I before E, except after Old MacDonald had a farm**_

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Chapter 27

Calindil gazed incredulously over the counter at the new customer who had just stepped cautiously through his front door. He was an Altmer, owner of the Mystic Emporium in the Imperial City's Market District and a part-time mage, even though he wasn't officially attached to the guild. His shop was small and the windows to the outside world were blacked out completely so that the only light came from a crack beneath the door and the many candles that dotted the room and had to be tended to regularly by the shopkeeper's only employee, Aurelinwae. Aurelinwae was an Altmer as well, tall, majestic and a natural at magic; now, however, she was in Blackwood gathering alchemical ingredients to sell in the shop and Calindil was left alone to tend his store.

The customer was wearing the robes of an apprentice mage and a black hood and didn't seem to have the ability to stop fidgeting awkwardly as he stood there. Though he couldn't be sure on the race of his new customer, Calindil was pretty sure that they would be a High Elf based on their height and the way they held themselves, either that or a tall, well-bred Imperial. No Nord was that thin, no Breton or Bosmer or Dunmer was that tall, and Orcs, Argonians and Khajiit could be spotted from the other side of town, let alone from a few metres away.

When the stranger continued to stand there in utter silence Calindil decided to venture a greeting: "Welcome to the Mystic Emporium," he said with a forced smile that came from running the same shop for more years than he cared to count. He had set up shop here not long after leaving the Summerset Isles when he was still what could be considered young by human standards; he was still young by Altmer standards too, but at almost a century he was old compared to most of the customers he received from the University. "Can I help you?"

The customer acted as if he were about to look up and meet the shopkeeper's eye, but suddenly his gaze dropped back to the ground and he crossed the room to the wooden counter. "Do you..." The first two words he spoke were laboured and strained, but still spoke volumes of the character beneath the hood. His customer was male, a High Elf fresh from the Summerset Isles and younger than most Altmer in Cyrodiil ever were. Calindil would only have placed that voice for someone in their twenties, something that was young even for humans. "... Sell Grand Soul Gems?" His voice hissed slightly as he pronounced the 's's, but Calindil brushed this to the back of his mind.

Calindil resisted a smirk. This young mage had no doubt been sent to find a soul gem by one of the scholars at the University for some class or other, he suspected enchanting lessons. He also doubted the apprentice would have anywhere near the sufficient funds to buy one. "Indeed we do," he smiled warmly. "However they are fairly pricey. Do you have enough gold?"

The stranger reached into his robes and pulled out a bag of coins which he dropped on the counter, revealing the golden skin of his hands as he did so - definitely an Altmer then. "Name your price," the voice fluctuating this time between the sophistication of the High Elves and a hissing, gravelly undertone that seemed unnatural beyond compare.

The bag of coins was obviously larger than those usually carried by Mages Guild apprentices and Calindil began to suspect that perhaps one of his assumptions about his customer had been wrong, either that, or he was just an apprentice from a wealthy family in the Summerset Isles... Knowing what people in the Summerset Isles could be like, Calindil suspected it was the latter. "I will sell you one for 560 gold, does that please you?"

"And you only have one?" Again the voice fluctuated hideously and Calindil began to suspect that his customer might not be exactly what he appeared.

"Indeed. One in stock. They are quite rare, you know, if you wanted another you'd have to wait for quite a while until I manage to get ahold of one. Do you need more than one for your guild research?"

The stranger seemed to flinch at the word 'guild' and the Altmeri shopkeeper was pretty sure that the eyes of the customer very nearly rose to meet his again. Finally he shook his hooded head. "One will be fine." Then he carefully pulled out 560 gold from his money pouch and threw it across the counter. Calindil couldn't remember the last time he'd made a sale in which he hadn't needed to haggle about the price.

He stooped slightly to pick up the gold from the wooden counter and, glancing up by chance, noticed that the stranger was looking at him from beneath his hood, red eyes and defined cheekbones clearly visible in the candlelight, and the only thing the shopkeeper could think to say was: "By the Nine Divines!" when the final revellation hit him like a tonne of weighty bricks.

xxx

Farwil Indarys did not return his father's embrace when arms were thrown around him accompanied by an exclamation of relief at his son's safe return from the count. He knew he ought to be dead by now. He knew he had led five people to their deaths on a childish whim. He knew that they had died protecting him, and truth to be told he felt like a murderer; in his opinion he didn't deserve the warm welcome he received.

The Hero of Kvatch had her arms crossed impatiently and her foot was tapping on the floor as she watched father by reunited with son. She was only here for one reason and one reason only, Farwil knew that much, and she would be gone as soon as she had guaranteed his father's support for Bruma, onto the next city to perform the tedious task again and get more help. The Dunmer was also pretty sure that he shouldn't know all this too, but he had intercepted the letter his father had received from Grandmaster Jauffre and blaimed the broken seal on the courier who had subsequently lost his job.

But who was going to tell the families of the people who had died?

Farwil hadn't even known their _names_ and yet he'd led them to their doom.

Were they from Cheydinhal or further afield? Did they even have any family?

He didn't know. The only thing he knew for absolutely certain was the horrible pit of guilt that was forming in his stomach with every passing thought that found its way into his mind.

His father was speaking with the Hero now, something about saving his precious son and offering a family heirloom as a reward. Her eyes were not on the count, however, but locked on his son, boring into his soul mercilessly. "I have no need of your reward," she said tersely, and her sightline didn't falter even though she was addressing the other Dunmer. "I ask only that you send men to aid the defense of Bruma.

His father had agreed quickly and she had turned and stalked out before Farwil registered anything further about the room around him. His father was speaking with Guard Captain Garrus Darelliun about a soldier to send and Garrus was nodding in a way that said that he had already decided on just the men to spare. _'Men to spare'_. Farwil flinched at that thought, it made them sound somehow expendable and his mind instantly found its way back to the plains of Oblivion where five innocent souls were now trapped for all eternity.

The young knight excused himself from his father's presence almost subconsciously and began drifting through the door into Cheydinhal before he could even properly register where he had decided to go. He knew, of course, if he stopped to think about it. Bremman and the Argonian were both in the chapel being tended to by the priestess for the injuries they had obtained and Farwil wanted to ask the Imperial whether he knew any of the dead personally before the courier got ahold of the story and modified it to their own taste.

The first thing that struck him upon his entrance to the chapel was the fact that the Hero of Kvatch appeared to have wound up here as well, but then he remembered that she knew the Argonian personally, perhaps they were even friends. The Altmer priestess Ohtesse was making her way between pews on which wounded people lay awkwardly depending on their injuries. Both Bremman and the mystery Argonian had surrendered their makeshift beds to stand near the altar since neither of them were beyond holding themselves up. The Hero leant against a pillar separately from the rest of the scene, a foot resting against the stonework and her arms folded tightly, her dark hood hiding her expression. From what he could see, the injuries people had sustained were not too severe, so he hazarded a guess that the death toll would be about five in total, and he hated himself for it.

When Bremman saw the Dark Elf he smiled weakly and began looking about for Ohtesse, hoping the leave soon. His wounds were mainly healed now and the scars were barely visible. The sign of a good healer was always whether they left scars or not, and Ohtesse was known from far and wide to be an expert healer, second only to a woman who many feared had been lost in the Sack of Kvatch months beforehand.

"Hail, Sir Farwil," Bremman said, putting on a quite convincing air of false hope as he spoke. "How are you faring?"

He considered the question carefully before answering. "Physically I'm fine. The people who died... the knights... I didn't even know their names..."

"It was not your fault," the Imperial man replied without hesitation. "They chose to follow you, as I did. If you had not led them in there, I am sure that someone else would have done, be that Burz gro-Khash, or Garrus Darreliun, or anybody else here. I will notify their families of course..."

"I want to do that myself," Farwil cut him off, his words slow and calculating. "Tell me where to find them and I will go personally, right now if I have to. I think that Father has known all along that I was useless in combat, and yet still he allowed he to 'train', indulged my every whim, told me lies. He thinks I am misguided and yet he does not offer me guidance. He hasn't offered me anything since my mother passed away. The people in town think he might have killed her, but they don't know how it destroyed him like I do. I want to do something to prove my worth to this city... that was why we went to Oblivion anyway..."

Bremman looked into the Dunmer's red eyes for a moment before finally answering. "I will show you where they came from as soon as Ohtesse allows me to leave," he said slowly, brushing a lock of his blood spattered and dirt encrusted blond hair out of his eyes. "But you did not cause their deaths... and I would much rather be considered misguided than idiotic."

xxx

Seanturco recoiled in shock as he realised that the other man had recognised him for what he was and took a step away from the counter as the shopkeeper raised a hand defensively, ready to cast any form of spell.

"Please, I don't want to..." he began, but he was cut off sharply by a silence spell hitting him squarely and rendering him completely speechless. His eyes widened in fear and began darting about for an exit, an escape

"Vampire scum!" Calindil hissed in frustration when his paralysis spell had no effect whatsoever and he tried desperately to remember what he had read in the past about vampirism.

Almost without thinking, Seanturco's hand found the iron dagger at his hip and he drew it stiffly, wielding it as a last defence and praying to the Eight and One that the High Elf would not remember that vampires were damaged by fire. It crossed his mind to turn and run, but that would raise the alarm throughout the rest of the town, and he really did need that soul gem - but was he prepared to kill for it? Calindil would not listen to reason, _could_ not listen to reason following the success of his spell. Seanturco kicked himself mentally as he reminded himself sourly that he had killed before for less. He _needed_ that soul gem and he _needed _that cure for vampirism.

And who was going to stand in his way?

xxx

Idari Mortha did not like _society_. It was a place she had never quite fitted into, even when she'd been with her brother and the rest of her family in Sadrith Mora. Society had _accepted_ her in Morrowind, but they had never actually welcomed her.

She approached the Argonian assassin after watching Farwil Indarys barge his way into the chapel and speak with his Imperial lackey about how he suddenly wished to atone for his life so far. _Fat chance of that happening_, Idari thought sourly. _He won't care after he's apologised for their deaths_.

Turner's right arm was held in a sling of cloth over his left shoulder and appeared to almost be healing itself, however slowly the process was.

"That is your first real wound?" the Dunmer asked him as she drew nearer, smirking slightly at the way he chose to gaze at the colourful windows rather than at the bloodied guardsmen beneath. He was on the opposite side of the altar to the door, a stone pillar providing him with a support upon which to lean.

He nodded. "I've had nothing worse than a cut or bruise before today," he told her in a low voice, hoping that none of the other people in the chapel would take notice of him. "Surprisingly, I had imagined it would be more difficult to heal. That priestess is gifted."

"You shouldn't have let your guard down," Idari scolded him, her red eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't have been hit at all if you'd been fully paying attention. You should get some training, and a better bow, that one's pathetic."

"Funny," Turner sighed. "I was hoping you'd be nice to me for a change."

"Funny," she snapped back at him bitterly, drawing a little attention from the guardsmen on the other side of the main altar. "I thought I told you to find a cure for vampirism."

"The witch wanted ten Grand Soul Gems," he explained to her, his voice level. "Then she will require ingredients for the potion and then she will need time to make it."

Idari growled fiercely. "We do not have any time to mess about in. Morrowind has been destroyed and Jauffre will not send a man to find my brother until he has two bottles of the cure to send with him."

Turner's eyes widened. "Morrowind has been destroyed?" he repeated, resisting the urge to choke. "All of it? What happened?"

"Vvardenfell," the Dunmer snapped. "The Red Mountain erupted and now everything's gone. Why should it matter to you?"

"I was _born_ onVvardenfell," he reminded her.

"And _your_ family are already dead," she spat back angrily. "You said as much yourself..."

"You know I don't have to help you," Turner told her, his expression darkening and his voice sounding threatening. "I could leave right now and you could never see me again, never see your brother. You could _kill_ me right now, for all I care! I don't know why you didn't when you found me! The tenets didn't stop you then and they don't stop you now. I not scared of death anymore, I'm not even scared of _you_ anymore. All I do is help you and all you do is insult me." His voice was growing louder now and was beginning to attract the attention of the other people in the chapel. "You know, sometimes I wish you _had_ killed me that day. I would have gone back to Vvardenfell and found your brother _for you_ if you'd asked me! I don't even know what you _look like _properly! I'm not your _servant_! I'm not some _animal_! I don't care if you're a bloody _Telvanni_, I'm not your flipping _slave!_ If you want to find your brother then I suggest you help me find Grand Soul Gems or it's going to be _months_ before anyone will be going anywhere near Morrowind."

Idari just blinked at him for a moment and for a brief minute Turner suspected he might have rendered her speechless, then she simply turned on her heels and strode from the chapel defiantly, several pairs of eyes following her. The Argonian fumed silently and nobody dared go near him until Ohtesse approached slowly to check the healing process on his arm; apparently satisfied she unwound the bandage that was holding it against his left shoulder and murmered quietly that he could leave now, and he was gone from the building without so much as a second glance.

xxx

Seanturco avoided the pool of blood around the dead High Elf with added caution. It had not been murder, in a way it was self-defence, but killing was still punishable with long terms of imprisonment and, in the case of a vampire, sometimes death. He was exercising vast quantities of self-control at the moment, to stop himself from stooping down and draining the corpse of any blood that had not yet leaked across the floor to stop his mind and body demanding it of him. He almost found himself wondering how anybody had survived as a vampire for longer than he had, but the answer was fairly obvious if he paused to think on it: through self-denial or through self-satisfaction.

After a few moments he had found the Grand Soul Gem that Calindil had tried to sell him and stowed it away in a pouch with the others, resolving that, now he was a killer, he would now leave the Imperial City and not return until he was fully Altmer, or so help him he would... well, he hadn't actually thought that far yet, but the plan would come eventually.

He had surprised himself at how easily he had killed the shopkeeper following the episode outside the fort only a few days previously. He was surprised at how little he'd thought about it, how simple it had been to stick a knife between the High Elf's ribcage and withdraw it to prevent the blood proving too much of a temptation. One did not simply learn to _live_ with killing innocent people and, unless one was severely messed up in the head, one did not make a habit of it.

_I have been spending too much time among assassins_, he mused to himself as he inspected his green robe for any signs of blood that might give him away as a killer when he stepped onto the streets of the Market District. He hoped that, since it was almost closing time, there would be no customers at this time either. That would be rather unfortunate.

He felt the silence spell wear off and muttered a brief but powerful chameleon enchantment before stealing off into the early dusk that was surrounding the Imperial City bound for Cheydinhal. _I just hope Turner can cope with finding six_...

xxx

She was there again, leaning against the statue just outside the chapel at the foot of which Turner had almost lost his life to two Mythic Dawn agents not long before. The guard had done a good job of clearing up the blood too, but there were still some rogue droplets that he had missed.

She didn't look happy.

She muttered a spell before throwing something blue at him so that, when he inevitably missed it, it didn't fall smashing to the ground in a million little magical blue pieces. A Soul Gem.

"_Anybody_ can find a Grand Soul Gem," she spat at him contemptuously, and beneath her black hood her red eyes flashed savagely with the emotion behind them. "You could probably find all ten here in Cheydinhal if you wanted to, if you knew where to look!"

Turner scowled at her before trying to take hold of the gem that was hovering in the air in front of him and failing as she made sure her spell kept a firm grip on it just beyond his reach. "If you don't help me then I'll never know, will I?" He was resisting the urge to shout at her, but he knew that that would draw more attention than he really wanted. "I'm not like _you_. I'm not a natural at everything! Heck, I don't think I'm a natural at _anything_!"

She didn't seem to move at all, but suddenly he found the Soul Gem settling into his armoured hands, shocked by how little evidence there was that he had had a broken arm only moments beforehand. "I am wanted in too many places at once right now. I cannot be here helping you if I am needed elsewhere. Jauffre wants me to visit every city, but I have no intention of doing that, not every city. I am headed to the next dead drop location," she continued in a quieted voice. "I will find you two more soul gems before I leave, and after that I expect you to go and plead with the Cheydinhal Mages Guild. Their Chapter Head was a necromancer, they have more than enough Soul Gems hiding there. Steal them if you have to. At the end of the day, it is for the greater good..."

"That's the problem with this whole plan," the Argonian replied, folding his arms after slipping the gem into a pocket of his armour. "It's for _your_ version of the greater good. It's _your_ brother that will be saved and cured. It's _your_ homeland that got destroyed. It's _your_ destiny to save Tamriel. It's all about _you_. Where do I fit into all this? What becomes of me when you don't want me around anymore? What becomes of me when you're Champion of Cyrodiil and Martin's the Emperor? Am I removed for all my uselessness? Do I get forgotten about? Do I go back onto the streets of Bruma? _You_ will be remembered by one and all forever and a day, and historians will praise _you_, and you will be at the level of fame reserved only for the _Nerevarine_, and what about me? I might not have _been there_ when the Emperor was killed and I might not have _been there_ when Kvatch was liberated, but I'm as much a part of this as you are now."

"Fine," she told him fiercely, hands on her hips defiantly. "_You_ try being the Hero of Kvatch. You _want_ to be remembered and I _don't_. I want to be _written out_ of history, that's why people don't know my name unless they have to. Coming to Cyrodiil was the second biggest mistake I ever made..."

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_Author Note: A short one. A very short one. A very broken up short one at that. Still, can't think how to make it longer. Farwil is a little OOC, but at least he's slightly less annoying than he is in game, and since he's never survived in mine I can only go off what I found on UESP... and Farwil's page is not very extensive atm. (The best character page on there is Janus Hassildor by a very long way). Yay for Turner! I'm glad he's standing up for himself properly after all this time. One day he's bound to punch her in the face. She'd deserve it. Anyway, I have to go to biology. Review!_


	28. Rumare

_After a week of OCD for you having stopped on 99, I finally reached 100. Milestone or what?_

_**Random Reader: I'm torn between agreeing with you and rebuking your claims entirely. Can I make Turner more ruthless? Yes I can, but part of his charm is that he ISN'T ruthless, part of his character is that he DOESN'T fit into the life he leads. He's an assassin, yes, but he's an accidental one. However it's nice to have some advice about Turner instead of streams of love for him :P ~ARTY~ P.S. I do enjoy the streams of love too, but advice is much more useful :)**_

_Also: spot the Morrowind quote_

_Don't you just love it when people say they need 'a break' before reviewing again and you never hear from them again? Or they apologise for a 10 day gap only to be gone for over a month? Or people who review you consistantly and then just stop for no reason? I know, I love it too. - _-_

_**Lyrics Quote: 'Do you suffer from long term memory loss?' 'I can't remember' - Amnesia - Chumbawamba**_

_**Quote: With the right words you can change the world - Charlotte - Charlotte's Web**_

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Chapter 28

He ran.

It had occured to him a while after he had reached his fated conclusion that perhaps he ought to have drained the blood of the High Elven shopkeeper that he had killed out of pure greed rather than anything else in order to keep himself strong for the journey to Cheydinhal, but he had probably made the right decision in the long run. How many other vampires would kill a shopkeeper and steal only a single Soul Gem?

Had it been worth it though? Was this one gem, this one cure, worth the life of another?

He stopped outside the city walls and leant against the cold stone walls in the semi-darkness afforded to the time of day surrounding dusk to think. Had he known anything about the man that he had _murdered_? The answer, despite his mind's protests and attempts to find a partially feasible argument, was always going to be no. Why had he done it? Personal gain? Personal _greed_?

But it had been self defense. The other mer had made the first move, cast the first spell, refused to listen to reason... If he had only given his customer a moment to explain then he might still be alive now, instead of... The vampire shuddered and removed his robed form from the pale stonework, debating whether to return to Cheydinhal the long way via the Red Ring Road or whether to simply walk across the water and continue on that way. Surprisingly such mundane thoughts were enough to keep the images of his deeds from his head, if only for a few moments, but the respite was something he welcomed greatly, however short it proved to be.

The waters of Lake Rumare glistened in the light of the two moons, Masser casting a low red glow over the countryside while Secunda shone bright white, illuminating everything. The trees swayed with the gentle breeze and the roar of the crowd in the Arena could be heard as the final match of the day drew to an end, the commentator's words lost amid the cheers and exclamations of disappointment as people lost their hard earned money to the Bosmer at the gate.

He was still chameleoned as he began to trace his way around the outside of the walls, watching the slaughterfish dance beneath the water in the moonlight, teeth bared and scales flashing with each movement. They would not eat well tonight, their biology made them far too visible to the potential prey when the water was this clear. He stood and watched them for a moment, wondering why they continued to hunt despite their disadvantage, what they would achieve, but then, something with the intelligence of a mudcrab would walk straight into their lair. Did mudcrabs know of their own stupidity? There were rumours of mudcrab merchants of Vvardenfell, though these days those were likely turned into roasted crab meat by the volcanic eruption that had destroyed their homes... either that, or the creatures had decided to take their business elsewhere.

Personally Seanturco had never been to Morrowind, though he had always planned to before he became embroiled in the plots of necromancers in Cyrodiil. Now he feared he never would, even if he managed to survive long enough to end his unfortunate spate as a vampire. He had overheard a conversation about the destruction of Vvardenfell while in the Imperial City and had a horrible feeling that these events would make the assassin who already hated him enough even more angry at the world and therefore twice as likely to kill him.

_The sooner I am cured and never have to deal with assassins again the better_, he thought to himself, part of him blaming the assassins for his selfish acts of murder while the other part, the more realistic part, knew that he probably would have acted that way even if he had never encountered a single assassin in his lifetime. That was even if he would have been alive long enough to commit his act of violence.

He looked up at the stars in the darkened sky and sighed. They reminded him of home on the Summerset Isles where his family were likely expecting some kind of report on their darling child's progress. He was an only child, most Altmer were, but unlike most Altmer he was the first born as well. Many of the first born High Elves were culled in an effort to preserve the perfection of their race and as a result they were slowly dying out. _I am not quite the perfect son they were hoping for_, he mused sadly as he cast Water Walking on himself and began to cross the lake at nothing more than a brisk walk, the ravenous fish swarming around his feet, hoping to take a bite. For a moment he considered allowing his spell to dissipate and letting the fish rip him to shreds, but then he thought better of it. _If I merely allow myself to be killed then how can I justify my actions in killing that shopkeeper? No, for his death to truly have a purpose then I must fulfil my goal of living once more..._

And with the crippling weight on his heart slightly lifted, he quickened his pace to a run.

xxx

Idari Mortha was much more comfortable in the shadows than she had ever been in the light and she skulked about in the approaching darkness that was engulfing Cheydinhal for all it was worth with a queer simplicity to her movements. Turner didn't follow her, instead choosing the rest on the steps leading to the former residence of one Aldos Othran, drunken Dunmer with an alcohol problem. His sudden burst of courage had taken everyone off guard, including himself, but Idari seemed no closer to apologising for her actions than she ever had been, probably ever would be at the rate she was going.

She wouldn't apologise until Oblivion had frozen over, dragons were roaming the skies, Secunda was neon purple and her brother was delivered safe and well to Cyrodiil in exactly the same frame of mind that he had been in when she had last seen him. Of all of them, Turner suspected the one about her brother was the least likely to happen. Still, nothing was beyond the power of the 'omnipresent, omniscient and omnipotent Eight and One'... or so they told him.

The Dark Elf returned after about half an hour and placed a Grand Soul Gem in front of him silently before slipping away into the shadows, barely allowing him to register her presence before she was gone again. He couldn't tell if she was in a bad mood and, while everything he had said to her had been entirely true, he didn't fancy dying anytime soon. At least _now_ his life had some kind of purpose to it, even if it had been far from it before.

From his position on the steps he could see the tattered door to the Abandoned House that nobody dared ever speak about. It hadn't _been_ abandoned, but it was now. The two surviving sanctuary members never spent much time there anyway, one because she was far to busy to concern herself with such trivial matters and the other because he was too squeamish to spend more than ten minutes in there without feeling violently sick. Speaker Lachance hadn't - and Turner suspected _wouldn't_ - remove the bodies of their fallen Brothers and Sisters until some lowly murderer had the misfortune of being ordered to do it... and failure to complete a task given to you by a superior would invoke the Wrath of Sithis.

Never dishonour the Night Mother. _To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis_. Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or her secrets. _To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis._ Never disobey or refuse an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. _To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis_. Never steal from a Dark Brother or Sister. _To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis_. Never kill a Dark Brother or Sister. _To do so it to invoke the Wrath of Sithis._

The same words repeated around and around. _To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis_.

What _was_ the Wrath of Sithis? Well, the Argonian didn't actually know the answer to that question, but it was something that all the members of the Dark Brotherhood feared invoking, whatever it was.

As far as he knew, he was one of the only members of the Brotherhood who were still bound by the Five Tenets and was thus among the most vulnerable with this traitor on the loose. The traitor had broken Tenet Five, so had the Wrath of Sithis gone after him? Maybe. Maybe the traitor was in the Black Hand and exempted from the tenets? Technically Idari might have broken Tenet Two by forcing Lucien to initiate the Argonian who had found her so simply... but evidently Sithis didn't see it that way.

He was pulled back suddenly from his thoughts by the sound of someone clearing their throat nearby and he jumped slightly at the sound, startled by its sudden invasion into his subconscious mind.

"I'm supposed to stop people going near this house," the guard said with a stifled sigh. Then his expression perked up slightly. "But I'm not going to be at this boring post for much longer, so I suppose you can stay there Argonian."

It was obviously a very small world, since it seemed to be the same guard who had been there to save him from the Mythic Dawn and the same guard who had escorted them to the chapel following their return to the city. "You won't be here much longer?"

"No," the Imperial shook his head with a small smile. "I'm going the Bruma to aid the fight against Oblivion. It's such an honour to have been the one selected. Apparently Garrus Darelliun asked for me to go by name... I say, is your arm better?"

Instinctively Turner looked at his previously broken arm before answering. Surprisingly his armour hadn't ripped with the contact from the mace and hid his green scales from the moonlight. "Ohtesse is an excellent healer," he replied simply. "I'm glad you don't have to stay at this post for very much longer. I don't think I ever quite conveyed how grateful I was that you saved my life."

The guard shrugged. "Yes, well, protect and serve, it's what we do."

"You couldn't..." the Argonian paused for fear he might be asking a stupid question, then decided to continue on regardless. "You couldn't remind me of your name? With my arm in that state it was difficult for me to concentrate..."

"Septimus Serocold," he smiled in reply. "I didn't expect many of you would have paid attention. We're just guards, we don't need names. I get 'Hail, Imperial' or 'Good morrow, guardsman' or 'You-utter-bastard-give-me-back-my-house' mostly, and that's when they're paying attention. All us guards look the same to all you citizens, and that's if we're anything better than invisible..."

"Just because people don't know your name doesn't mean they don't appreciate what you do. Half the time I suspect that the Hero of Kvatch might not even remember my name, but I know she does and just won't use it... That was a bad example. Does she appreciate me? I can't tell. We need her, but she has no people skills whatsoever and is terribly difficult as a result, and knowing her she's probably listening to every word I say right now from the shadows somewhere because she's just like that. It doesn't really matter if she hears it, Sithis only knows she needs to."

"Sithis?"

"A god worshipped in Black Marsh." For a spontaneous lie it was actually quite a convincing one, considering the fact that this same guard didn't even know the roles of the Nine correctly and was therefore highly unlikely to know any gods outside his own religion. However Turner's mind couldn't stop itself from adding: _Not that I've ever been there_ to the end of the statement just to rub it in.

"Ah," the guardsmen said simply, apparently believing it without any further questions. There was a brief moment of silence before he continued on a new subject: "What's it like in Oblivion then?"

This answer was far from spontaneous. "It's like nothing I would ever wish another soul to have to endure. It encompasses only fear and death and pain, and very few people ever return from its grasp. It burns like fire and there is no respite; corpses line the walls, the towers, the walkways; victims are tortured by daedra until they have the sense to die or they run out of strength. There is no water there, only molten rock, and the ground is blackened and charred, scarred with gashes that run with the blood of innocents; nothing is in one piece, not even the bridges across the lava.

"Within the Sigil Keep liquid fire tears the upper floors apart with a sound like a million dead souls crying out in anguish like all is lost. The walls there are made of blackest obsidian, black as the Void itself, and traps line the narrow corridors to ensure that even the most capable heroes are taken off guard. At the top, the Sigillum Sanguis, there is a stairway made of bones large enough to belong to a dragon that protrude from the walls awkwardly to form a spiral up to the second level, on which carpets of flesh are stretched like canvas over weak supports and at the top, in the centre of the column of fire, there is the thing that you've endured all this suffering for, the thing that will end it all as quickly as it began. And it's just a stone. A blackened stone. A magic stone. An _evil_ stone.

"But remove it from the flames and the world begins to collapse around you, sparks rain from the sky and the ground beneath your feet trembles in protest to your so rudely removing its anchor to your mortal plain, and any daedra you haven't killed howl in anger or pain or fear and attack with added vigour in an attempt to kill you quickly enough to replace the stone before you can return to Nirn.

"And then it's over. There's grass beneath your feet, and it's not fire falling on your head but little droplets of water, and people are cheering because you _saved them_, but you know that you really only saved _yourself_, because when you're in there all thoughts of others have to disappear. If you think of the people you are striving to save you will be distracted and you will die, so you have to allow your consciousness to take a back seat and let your primal survival instincts carry you onwards. You have to ignore your conscience as you murder and maim the daedra around you, you have to ignore the burning corpses strung from the ceilings and the hideous stench of _death_ that surrounds you, you have to ignore the agonised screams of the latest torture victims because you know that it's too late for them. The daedra have them now. And you just run, because that's all you know how to do, all you're confident that you can't muck it up any more than you could do for anything else you might try. So you run and you slash and you jump over corpses and then... normality.

"But what is normality? A world without Oblivion pouring out? Well, you're wrong. You've only saved one town after all that work, and the chances are that another might very well open up there again in a few weeks time, but you can't be everywhere and you can't bring yourself to set foot in that dreadful place again. But you do, because now you're their _hero_ and people look up to you when you've done nothing but save your own hide, and that's all you'll do the next time, and the time after that, and any other time they force you to go back. So for now all you can hope is that they light the Dragonfires before you're called upon to go back, because it's the last place on Nirn that you want to be right now, right ever.

"But however much they hail you as a hero, you'll always be the same old useless mortal that you've always been. You're still clumsy. You're still squeamish. You're still treated like a servant by the woman you've done nothing but help throughout this entire crisis. So why do you try to pretend? Why do you play the hero? Why do you let them believe that your input was worth something? You know that the Hero of Kvatch did most of the work anyway, and you know you'd be long dead if she didn't constantly show up. So why do you do it? To save others from this fate is why, because you know that if you don't, no-one else will."

xxx

Idari's mind had barely registered the slight tug on a pocket of her shrouded armour before she had reacted to it, pinning to would-be thief against the wall menacingly, Blade of Woe poised to strike. The pickpocket was young, horrifyingly so for someone in her position, only a teenager but clothed in rags, forced to steal, shockingly thin, scarily frail. Idari suspected that even she could have broken the young thief in half if she wanted to, despite the fact that the teenager was taller by a good couple of inches.

She was a Khajiit, so the mer found placing her age more precisely much more difficult than usual. Her fur was light brown, the colour of balsa wood, and streaked in places with a darker shade of the same colour; her eyes were green and her feline pupils were elongated slightly, enough to give away her heritage without any other hints as to her race. The hair on top of her head was pulled into different wooden coloured beads that had faded with age and in many places the paint had chipped away to reveal the wood beneath. She looked about in fear from the person holding her against the wall with relative ease to the pocket from which she had attempted to lift the precious treasure to the pathway from which they could not be seen then back at the pocket then back at the face which was obscured with a dark hood and the shadow of the night.

"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't slit your throat right here," the assassin threatened, not showing mercy even to a child.

"This one meant no harm," the thief replied, voice quivering in a broad Cyrodilic accent. But she was lying, her eyes had found that pocket again and the prize was calling out to her to take it. "Please, this one is only a kitten." Idari had always hated how Khajiit never referred to themselves as 'I' unless they had undergone intensive schooling in the art of speech or spent a lot of time among Imperials; she also noted that this particular Khajiit was missing at least three teeth.

"What were you intending to steal?"

"The blue stone. A pretty thing; fetch Khajiit much money for food." The sound of this young Khajiit's voice was grating on the Dunmer's nerves and she swore inwardly that if she didn't learn to form a sentence correctly pretty sharply she would find her voice box being cut from her throat by a certain ticked off assassin. She was prepared to do it to, prepared to strike even a child dead when a strange feeling came over her unlike anything she had ever experienced.

"Go to the Imperial City," she said in a low, alien voice. "Go to the Waterfront District and speak to a Redguard by the name of Armand Christophe between midnight and two in the morning. Do this and you won't have to steal to eat anymore." She let go of the thief and took a calculated step backwards as a sign of dismissal and a symbol of freedom earned. "Do not let me catch you trying to pickpocket me again or I may not be so lenient with you."

The Khajiit nodded, wide-eyed and naive. "Ma'Deeri thanks the kind Dunmer," she growled gratefully before scampering off in the direction of the gates as quickly as her legs would carry her.

Idari shook her head in disbelief. "Mercy?" she asked herself in disgust as she replaced her Blade of Woe into a pocket of her black armour. "Child or not, she tried to steal from me and yet I let her go... Sent her to a guild, _my_ guild." Then she shook her head finally, decisively. "I have spent too long playing the 'Hero of Kvatch' role, I suppose there is still time to return to 'child of Sithis' before Martin wishes more help of me." Her hand came to rest on the Grand Soul Gem that she had so nearly lost to the less than subtle hands of the wannabe pickpocket. "However first thing's first I have to ensure that my brother's rescue is going according to plan..."

xxx

Guardsman Septimus Serocold had listened to the strange Argonian's tale from start to finish, enraptured by his words from the very start. It wasn't very often that people were captivated by the words of the ex-beggar, mostly because they never gave him the time of day in which to speak to them. The guard was taken in by every phrase of the journey through Oblivion, his mind's eye forming the picture of what he expected it to be like with every image.

"You are quite the storyteller," he remarked once the Argonian had stopped speaking and he had regained the use of his lips once more.

Turner shrugged unhelpfully. "Depends on your point of view," he spoke quietly. "I was a bard for about a year, but that was a while ago now." He was spinning a yarn when he said that too, for it was less than a year since he had been cast out onto the streets of Bruma by that thieving Nord in Olav's Tap and Tack. _If only they'd come after me _now, he thought to himself bitterly in retrospect. _At least now I stand some chance of defeating them in combat, even if I was only fighting on luck_. "I studied under Quill-Weave for a while, but other than that..."

"She's an author, right?" the guard asked with even more enthusiasm than normal. When the assassin nodded he continued: "I haven't read any of her books, but I hear she's awfully good. That must be where you get it from. She's an Argonian too; any relation of yours?"

The question caught the Argonian off-guard completely and he flinched at the sharp stabs it made into his subconscious as he tried to think of a convincing lie to worm his way out of this one. "She was a friend of my parents." _Lie one._ "I came over from Black Marsh -" _Lie two._ "-To study with her." _Lie three._ "As soon as she deemed I was ready I set off on my own." _That bit was actually the truth, but as far as the guardsman knows so is the rest of the tall tale. _"When I reached Bruma I met the Hero of Kvatch -" _What a lovely euthemism_. "-And my life changed forever." _Changed in more ways than I care to elaborate on_._.. When did I become such a compulsive liar?_

Throughout his life Turner had always claimed that he couldn't remember his past, that he was too young, too vulnerable, too stupid to remember, but it was not so much a lie as a skillful facade he had put on since the day he was old enough to speak. He doubted he would ever tell the true story, unless someone probed into his mind, hit him with an honesty spell and decided to ask all the right questions. A lot of his history was so far ingrained into his mind that he often feared that he _had_ forgotten it. He was going to stay away from Anvil, that was for sure, unless he absolutely had to venture inside the city for a contract, something he doubted highly would ever occur. Anvil was the one city, the only one in the whole of Tamriel, that had his secrets locked away within it so tightly that just seeing the city walls would bring back a torrent of unwelcome memories. There were other cities, obviously, that had played a part in his life - one was Ebonheart, a port on Vvardenfell that had been completely demolished by the eruption of the Red Mountain, and the other was a small settlement near Mournhold that was so insignificant in the scheme of things that he had all but forgotten its name - but Anvil was the one that he had locked away forever and thrown away the metaphorical key where not even the ghosts of his past could lay their greasy mitts upon it.

And the last person he wanted to spill his past to was Idari Mortha.

He knew her past, sure, but he trusted her about as far as he could throw her. She didn't trust him either, which was fairly obvious in the way she interacted with him, and her past had been revealed following a series of events that would never, ever be repeated unless they both lived to be seven million eight hundred and ninety two thousand six hundred and thirteen years old, which they wouldn't at all.

So for now he humoured the guardsman before him. He doubted that the world was small enough to have them brought together at some point in the future again, but he had been wrong about such things before. After all, Idari kept finding him again, didn't she? He expected that he could go to the smallest cave in the middle of _nowhere_ and eventually the Dunmer would end up trailing into that same cave, blazing a wider path of destruction and ultimately insulting his methods in some manner or other before leaving to run her own life again.

Had Fate brought them together? Turner sure hoped not. _I have enough on my plate without the gods and other deities deciding to meddle with my life at their every whim. If the gods really did bring her to Baenlin's house that fateful night, I pray that they send me a letter - in writing - at the utmost haste detailing exactly how and why they decided that it was _my_ life they wanted to screw with..._

And with his little prayer said, the Argonian had a horrible feeling that he was going to get more than he bargained for.

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_Author Note: As I sit here sipping my lacto-free hot chocolate I wonder why this chapter took me so long to write... And I have no answer. It was short, too short, for a long while and, while the last section seems a little forced, it is entirely necessary. Writing Oblivion from Turner's point of view was both a challenge and a curse. In short it was a pain in the neck, but a necessary pain in the neck. My little thief is back, I told you she'd be back when I was writing chapter 11. She won't be in it directly in the foreseeable future, but listen out for snippets of her. Septimus Serocold is going to be the Cheydinhal guard at the Bruma gate. I haven't decided his fate yet, but somebody will have to die... Idari showed mercy? I know... It shocked me too, but she isn't entirely the cold-hearted bitch she makes herself out to be... not all the time anyway. Seanturco wasn't quite as angsty as I expected him to be... I guess he'll be worse when he recounts his actions to the others... And I feel like I'm leaving myself a review by explaining all these snippets._

_If you never read the rewritten versions of chapters 1 and 2, I suggest you go back and do that now. You won't get the 'neon purple' bit unless you do. I know 'neon' is not a colour in Tamriel, but that also means it's not a colour that Secunda can turn, doesn't it?_

_Also, why in Oblivion does chapter 2 have so many reviews? Why do people read chapters 1 and 2 before reviewing? It's not a bad thing, but I'm confused. And of the EIGHT reviews I have for chapter 2, none of them are from my three most reliable reviewers - DualKatanas, Nachtrae and Commentaholic. Which begs the question... where the hell did my reviewers go?_

_Alright, I was going to make a poll, but that would make me a hypocrite, so instead I put it to you in a review poll type thingummy, but ONE or MORE of my characters are going to be dying before the end of this story. I want your opinions, but at the end of the day I know I'll go with what sits right with me. Yes, this does mean I might kill Turner, Idari, Seanturco or any of the other random people who popped up. I might even kill some of the characters made by Bethesda. If there is a character you desperately don't want to die, drop a review or leave a PM either that, or leave their fates to the god of muses._

_~ARTY~ **Song: What's Up - 4 Non Blondes**_


	29. Final Justice

_**Quincy Logan**__: Oh, anonymous flamer eh? Fair enough, you're entitled to your opinion and largely I agree with you. If you read my author's notes you'll know what I think of my chapters. A lot of the scenes are forced, I know, it's unfortunate but true. The length is an issue because someone on the last fandom I wrote for made a scene about them being too short. You're right though, completely, that I should stop when the chapter ends, not when my wordcount reaches what my mind deems an acceptable limit. I know you said you wouldn't be reading anymore, but if by some stroke of luck you do read this reply, I would like to say thank you for taking the time to read it, thank you for calling it okay (which is better than crap anyday) and thank you for voicing your opinions. I appreciate even the anonymous flamers (and I really appreciate the person who told you it was good too, whatever you may have thought about it). However you know what I would have appreciated more? An anonymous flame with a little advice on it :)__** ~ARTY~**_

_Commentaholic's dad really made me smile today when I read his reply to my review. It's the little things like this that make writing all the more worthwhile. :)_

_Part of this chapter got deleted when my computer crashed. Couldn't quite recreate what I had, but I tried. Be as brutal as you like; truth hurts, but how else does one improve?_

_**Lyrics Quote: Everybody wants to be a winner, nobody wants to lose their game, it's the same for me, it's the same for you, it's insane insane insane insane insane... - Insane - Texas**_

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Chapter 29

The dead drop was in a battered old crate underneath an old bridge that was rarely used any more south of the Imperial City. The target was a psychopath, it seemed, who had murdered a family of Dunmer in Morrowind and was now living as a fugitive in a cave in Cyrodiil, just beyond the reach of the Morag Tong.

Idari grinned sinisterly as the first tendrils of light began to lick over the horizon and illuminate her dark face beneath her black hood. The Argonian had the third Soul Gem she'd promised now, along with directions to the remaining ones that he would need to make up numbers. Soon her brother would be safe.

The mine in which the fugitive resided was near Bravil apparently, the scum-hole that it was, and at least meant that she could kill two birds with one stone and guarantee the support of the count of the grime-ridden town for the defence of Bruma. She was saving judgement about which other cities would get her help until she knew where either Lucien or Martin was deciding upon sending her next. For now she was just an assassin; all this heroism was making her go soft.

She walked up the small bank to the road smoothly and approached her black stallion without fear and, though the horse made no move to do anything, she could tell that he was raring to go. The battle at Cheydinhal had proven rather a disappointment for him and he had ended up trotting back towards Fort Farragut in search of his previous master; this new master was a skilled assassin and about as good company for the horse as his previous one, but she had a tendency to disappear through those fiery portals for up to days at a time and Shadowmere was_ not_ impressed. The stallion was already moving before his rider had even had a chance to sit herself in the saddle properly, heading for Bravil and its nearby Flooded Mine.

The mark's name was Shaleez and that fact twinned with the details that she was hiding in a _flooded_ mine showed that Idari was going up against an Argonian underwater. And not just a pathetic one this time. Fighting an Argonian underwater was about as useful as fighting an Ash Vampire in an ash storm - the odds hopelessly stacked on the wrong side - but if the Nerevarine could take on at least six Ash Vampires singlehandedly - and not just _any_ Ash Vampires, but Dagoth Ur's _personal_ Ash Vampires - then Idari Mortha could take on a regular Argonian underwater. Besides, all she needed was Water Breathing and then the only advantage the fugitive would have would be the ability to swim faster... She was also going to need to waterproof her armour somehow, or she would likely find herself unable to remove her leather armour ever again. Her main hope was that she would be able to catch her target on dry land; the Argonian would be taller and stronger than her, but she had taken down opponent's twice her size on dry land before, just never underwater. How hard could it be?

She did not need to spur her horse onwards for he ran at his own pace whatever she wished him to do, and the ride was not to be a long one anyway as most of the distance had already been covered during the night as she had made her way from Cheydinhal to Old Bridge. She paid not heed to the small village she rode past before turning southwards onto a road that she could still remember clearly was the pathway to the location of her very first Dark Brotherhood contract and through the wooded Heartlands with a strange feeling in her stomach. She brushed it aside, it wasn't important, but something about the way this contract was phrased had thrown her slightly...

Still, it wasn't her job to question contracts, it was her job only to fulfil them.

xxx

"You only found four?" The Argonian did not seem impressed but made no form of criticism towards the mage who stood before him. The Altmer had arrived after dusk on the fourth day but Turner said nothing on his time-keeping skills as his eyes were drawn involuntarily to the dark bloody stain at the bottom of the dark green robes his companion wore.

"There was... a complication." The answer was reluctantly given and far from what the assassin had been hoping for.

"Well we only have nine now," Turner said slowly, folding his arms in annoyance. "I went to the guild and I found two, the Hero of Kvatch found me three, but she's gone now. She's getting restless about us finding this cure too, and I think she'll turn violent if we delay much longer."

Seanturco did a double take. "'_Us_' finding the cure?" he repeated in shock. He knew that his finding the cure was nothing to do with her wanting it and never would be; he also found himself wondering why the Argonian was going to such lengths to appease her.

The assassin shrugged. "Well you and I are lumped in this together in her mind. I don't know what she'll do once we've completed our allotted tasks, but I hope to Sithis that there's someone nearby when we do..." The mage fidgeted uncomfortably but said nothing. "Is that blood affecting you badly?" Turner asked as gently as he could manage without sounding like a brooding female.

The High Elf shook his head while taking great care not to look down at his feet. "It affects only my conscience. I tried to wash it off, but it seems it's stuck there as a horrible reminder of the deeds I've commited to haunt me until all this is over."

"You killed somebody then..." Turner summed up with a heavy sigh. "For blood?"

Again he shook his head. "No, for a soul gem. It was petty of me and I shall regret it always. Why should a man lose his life so that I may regain mine? It was so easy to kill him but oh so difficult to avoid the blood; the sight, the smell that lingered in the air, the expectation of the taste, everything drew me into it and every fibre of my conscious mind fought against it. There is nothing I can do now except pray that this cure is worth the trouble it caused me, the actions it forced me to partake in... You can acquire a tenth soul gem, can't you?"

The Argonian considered his question for a moment before answering. "I may have to resort to theft," he said carefully. "But I imagine that I will be able to. Your 'complication' does seem rather damning, doesn't it?"

Seanturco frowned deeply and a flash of anger was clearly visible in his red eyes before he snapped in reply: "I have only the blood of one on my hands, how many countless numbers can you say are on yours?" All his anger was channelling towards the assassin before him and the scent of blood in his veins was more alluring than it had ever been before.

Turner didn't react at all, didn't even take a step away, barely even blinked, his golden eyes fixed on the red pair belonging to the vampire before him. "I have killed four times," he said slowly, calculatingly. "The first was an accident and the others were _duty_. I can't expect you to understand our guild, nor can I explain to you why, but disobeying orders is punishable by death. _You_ killed out of greed, _I_ kill in order to save my own skin." Something had changed in the assassin, that much Seanturco knew, and it had happened quickly, so very quickly, that he couldn't easily tell whether the change was going to be for better or for worse. "I may have become an assassin in order to save myself, but I am to become a thief in order to save you."

And with that said he turned sharply on his heels and strode back towards the gates of the city that the vampire did not dare to enter on account of his condition. His face was pale again now, and his cheekbones were becoming more prominent almost by the hour, his eyes losing some of the redness that came after feeding, and he had been recognised much earlier in his symptoms last time. He slumped against a tree and withdrew a small pink vial of blood from his robes; he had no intention of drinking it until the sun truly began to burn into his skin and cause him pain. Every feed was to be considered a step away from humanity, so he intended to restrict that number as much as possible.

xxx

As Evening Star drew closer around Cyrodiil and winter set in properly temperatures everywhere were beginning to drop and it was not only high in the Jerall Mountains where snow looked imminent. Here however the sky was not white with snow or black with rain, here the sky burnt like fire and the red clouds danced to their own morbid tune.

She ignored it as she dismounted her horse and approached the door that the map with her contract had pointed her to. She didn't feel a smidge of regret for avoiding the Oblivion gate for now; she knew people would call upon her to close it later in time and for now she was done with being a hero and a different, darker destiny was calling her.

The wooden doorway was partially hidden in a pile of boulders, but the entrances to most caves and mines were often found in similar places. After casting a silence spell on the hinges of the door she pushed it open and almost immediately cast chameleon on herself, shutting the timber portal firmly behind her.

A flooded mine was the perfect hiding place for a fugitive. All assassins hated a contract which involved water, mainly because of the difficulty involved in stealth in the presence of water. Water splashed under footsteps, left voids when even invisible people were present and, even if one managed to get out of the water successfully, it had a nasty habit of dripping on the floor around the potentially sneaky candidate and giving away their position via the rather obvious soggy footprints trailing behind a seemingly innocent shadow.

Idari proceeded with caution; this target was a fugitive so good at running, an Argonian so good at swimming, and a deadly opponent with a no-doubt powerful weapon. She couldn't remember a time when the odds had been so stacked in opposition to her as they were right now. She cast Water Breathing on herself and slipped as silently as she could manage into the water.

The mine was not large, the Dunmer suspected they had stopped construction when they had cut through a wall and allowed the contents of the Niben to flow inside and drown the place in its murky waters, so locating the mark was far easier than she had expected it to be. Shaleez was older than most of the Argonians she had encountered before judging by the red tinges to her scales as she squatted beside a small campfire eating what looked like a sweetroll. The target was dressed from head to toe in glass armour that glistened with the reflections of the water around it and reflected the campfire gently on its surface, at her right hip an enchanted longsword was held in a scabbard, though the enchantment itself was hard to place on account of the distance between them; the only thing the Argonian lacked was a shield and a helm, but with training the disadvantages of going without these items were somewhat negligible. Idari herself had had a habit of going into battle without armour at all when she lived in Morrowind, but that had been when she thought battling creatures was a challenge and the teenage feeling of invincibility was still felt strongly by every fibre of her being.

That was before she lost Reron.

"Who sent you this time?" the mark said suddenly through the silence, catching the assassin off guard despite her lack of reaction. The element of surprise well and truly lost, Idari pulled herself out of the murky water in a single movement and collected herself, still chameleoned, ready for battle. Shaleez laughed; it was a strangely warm laugh for one who was on the run and knew an assassin had come for them. "Do you think you are the first one to be sent after me?" The Argonian straightened and turned to face the invisible figure who stood before her in her makeshift home. "I did not expect a visit from _you_, however Dunmer, that is highly unusual..."

That comment _had_ caught Idari off guard fully and she did a rather strained double take. One of the things she always made sure to keep secret was her race, and failing that she resorted to just hiding her name from anyone who did not need to know. This fugitive could not see her, she had double-checked her chameleon charm to almost the point of paranoia and there was no way that the Argonian before her could have seen what heritage she came from, no way on Nirn.

"Relax, Assassin," Shaleez reassured the empty space before her. Idari noted queerly that the word 'assassin' did not seem to be used as a generalisation, but rather as an adjective, possibly a rank. She brushed it aside; maybe this fugitive had done her research, or maybe she just had a funny way of speaking... it was an Argonian after all. "I heard your accent when you cast your spells as you arrived. I must say, not many people have the sense to cast Silence on the door these days. You do not sound like you have been in Cyrodiil for long; such dreadful news about Red Mountain. Vivec went missing... taken by the daedra during the Oblivion Crisis... His power to hold the Ministry of Truth lost... Dreadful." For someone who had murdered a Dunmeri family in Morrowind, this Argonian seemed to be showing a rather ironic concern over the well-being of the province. Still, it is not every day that such a catastrophic event as the eruption of Red Moutain occurs. "Would you like to eat and rest after your journey?"

Idari raised an eyebrow under the cover of her chameleon charm. What sort of fugitive was this? A psycopath? What psychopath offered someone sent to kill them food and rest before they were murdered? It was absurd, utterly absurd. She drew her katana silently in anticipation of the battle. "Sithis would not have me rest," she spoke, sounding as threatening as she could without entirely betraying her heritage. Though her Cyrodilic accent was rather convincing she saw no reason to use it, and this fugitive obviously had a practiced enough ear to see through her ruse anyway.

Shaleez cocked her head slightly to one side but continued to gaze intently at the blank space in front of her as if she were conversing with someone as visible as she was. "Your devotion is admirable," she said simply. "You must be a real favourite of the Night Mother."

_Night Mother_. How did the target know these things? Why was she so unaffected by the fact that an assassin stood before her, intent on spilling her blood? How many assassins had she fought off before, how many lives had she ended since leaving Morrowind?

Idari swung her sword. It was not so much loyalty that burned in her veins and lit a fire in her stomach, but perhaps it was regret? This Argonian had been killing her Dark Brothers and Sisters for some time, it seemed, and that was one of the _tenets_. _Tenet Five: Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis_. Was it guilt that made her swing with ferocity? _She_ had killed her Dark Brothers and Dark Sisters, nobody else. That couldn't be allowed.

For the first time since the arrival of the void in the air the Argonian's face was a picture of shock as she leapt aside to the sound of air being forced aside by something sharp, something dangerous. She cast a dispel enchantment to reveal her attacker, a short Dunmeri woman garbed in black leather that was streaked with water droplets that resembled tears. Shaleez met the blow with her own sword, only to have it break up upon impact as the Dark Elf cast another spell, a complicated one that was generally only used by the most advanced mages or those of a certain Great House from Morrowind... And then the one thing that the 'fugitive' had been unable to discover fell resoundingly into place; if it had been a real thing rather than a thought it would have echoed.

Who was this assassin attacking her? The prodigy. The one that Lucien Lachance had spoken so highly of. The young Telvanni Morag Tong agent. The one who had murdered the Speaker. She was destroying the Black Hand one by one, killing them off with her bare hands; her skill was undeniable, but where did her loyalties lie? Why would she destroy them? Was she a Morag Tong spy? No, they had all but been destroyed in the eruption of Red Mountain, at best a single guildhall had survived to carry on the tradition. Then, at the same moment she was caught in the line of fire of a disintegrate armour spell, she realised that this Silencer was not out for personal gain.

She was following orders.

Lachance's orders.

Shaleez ran as her glass armour smashed into a million tiny shards, piercing her skin in several places so that a small amount of her blood flowed onto the rocky ground of the mine. She dived into the water and swam down into the depths. It was almost impossible to swing a sword successfully underwater, and being an Argonian the fugitive's disadvantages would disappear if the Dunmer was forced to stay down for the length of time that her spells could last. The Argonian had fought and trained some excellent assassins over the years, and this one would not prove too difficult once her numerous advantages were minimised. Underwater one could not cast magic, movement and vision were impaired, breathing was only viable using spells or enchantments, the aim of projectiles was altered; only Argonians could truly fight properly while beneath the surface, and this one was no different.

Idari stood on the edge of the pool of water with a sinister grin on her face; her partially formed plan was working a treat. Shaleez was expecting a fight underwater in which she would be the winner, but the unfortunate Argonian was tragically mistaken. She was up against a Telvanni who, while young, was studied in the practical uses of magic and an expert in the field of destruction.

And what did water conduct?

The spell was not complicated, especially for someone who had grown up on an island and had been practicing this same spell since she was old enough to pronounce the words and cope with the fatigue to her body. She cast the shock spell and grinned as the target's body writhed beneath the surface of the murky liquid, morbidly amused by the sight, then she recast Water Breathing on herself quickly followed by a spell that gave her resistance to shock - as a child she had learnt the hard way when putting her hand into a recently electrified puddle - and dived into the depths, Blade of Woe clasped in her gloved hand.

Shaleez was doubled over at the bottom of the water, staying down through sheer effort and breathing erratically as the assassin approached to deliver the final justice. She saw the blade in the Dark Elf's hand and felt nothing, not fear, not anger, not pain. Lachance had been right when he had said that his Silencer was gifted almost beyond comparison; the Argonian had assassinated countless mages over the years, but none had ever used the trick that would ultimately end her life against her. She accepted her fate, glad to go to Sithis at the hand of the one who had finally outwitted her, knowing she couldn't win now, and when it came it came swiftly and cleanly, and she watched the red eyes of the person who ended her life intently, watched as the expression didn't alter in the slightest as the dagger glided across her throat, severed her blood vessels. No remorse. The mark of a deadly assassin.

A plume of redness escaped the throat of the Argonian only to be swallowed up by the water around it, and when Idari finally let go of the corpse it began to rise to the surface slowly. She turned and swam towards the entrance of the cave swiftly. She had not served Sithis for a while now and it had been sweet, oh so sweet. She would not wait this long before killing again.

xxx

The members of the Mages Guild in Cheydinhal slept soundly as an unstealthy Argonian crept invisibly through their halls towards the place from which he had received the previous two soul gems. The merchant, a High Elf named Eilonwy, had reluctantly agreed to sell him two gems after a lot of persuasion and some difficulty proving his affiliation with the guild, but she had also unwittingly led him to her store of magical equipment - a cupboard which she unfortunately left locked tightly when she went to sleep.

The specialisation of the guildhall in Cheydinhal lies with Alteration, so it was hardly difficult for Turner to find a scroll to unlock the cupboard and claim his final prize. Technically he suspected that the Altmeri woman would have sold him another soul gem if he had waited until morning and changed into an outfit that made him look less like a necromancer and more like a respectable mage, but in his mind there was no time left; Idari was restless now and had left him with a deadline until she hunted both him and Seanturco down and gutted them both for sport. How long had she said? Before Morning Star. How long was that? Two weeks maximum. She had made herself more than clear.

He knew how she would deal with this situation too: chameleon spell, silence enchantments, the full works. If that didn't work she would put a knife to the throat of Eilonwy's husband Orintur and threaten to use it unless she was given what she wanted. He didn't have to courage to take a hostage really, and he didn't have the magicka reserves or skills to cast those spells unless he found a convenient scroll lying around.

He opened the cupboard door as quietly as he could manage and removed a Grand Soul Gem, tucking it into a pocket of his armour before closing the door and taking a step away. He couldn't lock the door again, even the best mages in the world found locking charms difficult; it was probably simpler to summon the key to the door than to magically lock it and expect the magic to hold for long enough because, unlike charms which unlocked, a locking charm required a duration rather than a one-time bout of energy to be successful. The duration could be increased by the skill of the wizard, but none of them had yet figured out how to simply reverse an unlock spell completely.

Turner backed away from the scene of his crime and only just turned in time to prevent himself tumbling down the stairs backwards which, asides being painful and embarrassing, would probably manage to wake up the entire sleeping guild and get him arrested on sight. This was why he had never become a thief, he was simply too unfortunate to pull it off. He walked down the stairs again as quietly as he could manage, truly amazed by how much better he had become at sneaking since following Idari as she assassinated his master back in Bruma, but slightly disappointed that he was still as good as useless at remaining undetected when not under the cover of invisibility, so for good measure he cast it on himself again and approached the final hurdle - the door - knowing full well that his spell would dissipate around him as soon as he tried to touch anything. Why had the mages not invented permanent invisibility? They didn't need to, the experienced ones could cast chameleon and the younger ones would eventually learn to. Turner wouldn't; magic disliked him.

He prised the door open quietly and slipped outside, the scent of the flowers of Cheydinhal hitting him again now that some of the sulphurous scent left behind by the Oblivion gate had gone, the vibrance of the beautiful city returning despite its ordeal.

His thievery would not go unnoticed, he knew that. He would probably be fingered for the crime too, considering how long he had spent _begging_ Eilonwy to give him another Soul Gem only to be begrudgingly granted a second. Now he had a third. Unfortunately he had a feeling this would not be the last time he came to Cheydinhal, but by then he would be prepared to atone for his crimes, to serve his sentence in a small cell beneath the grand castle. He deserved it too for all the crimes he had committed since leaving Bruma; he ought to be locked up in the Imperial City Prison and have the key thrown away eternally, but then some strange twist of fate might embroil him in another plot.

After all, how many heroes were originally captives of the Imperial Prison?

* * *

_Author Note: How many indeed? It was me referring to it as the 'Imperial City Prison' that brought back my memories of playing Morrowind. **'They have taken you from the Imperial City Prison, first by carriage, now by boat, to the east, to Morrowind...' **And Idari's story started there too, didn't it? In Arena, the player starts in a dungeon in the Imperial City, presumably the prison, too... Daggerfall... Maybe not... :)_

_This one was a short one, yeah, but read my reply to Quincy Logan and you'll understand why it has to be this way. And - shock horror - I've written a vague plan of the next few chapters so I actually know what's happening next :O It's great, isn't it? I never know what's happening next. OK, about Shaleez, I had this idea that assassins are sent to her to train since she's a member of the Black Hand, perhaps members who are candidates for the Black Hand... Give two people the same contract and see who proves most successful... But this contract was different. See, this also explains how Bellamont would know where she is, right? I took a little liberty with the power of electricity over water, for sure, but I think it works, and she doesn't give up, she just knows when she's been beaten. Also, you should know that there's a small lapse in time between this chapter and the next one... well, Idari's part of the story anyway... let's say... a couple of days. I'm not writing endless Oblivion Gate chapters, no Sir._

_Also, I was going to reply to my review from Commentaholic's dad here... But I figured that replying to a review of chapter 5 in the author's note of chapter 29 is not intelligent... However, I hope that Commentaholic will pass on my message of thanks. ~ARTY~_


	30. Redwater Slough

_Author Note: 30, eh? I have reached 30 before, but never like this. This time is better. __**Maybe this time I'll win**_

_Also, congrats to Idledreamcatcher, NoSoundComes and Commentaholic's Dad for catching up! And also, of course, thanks to the ones who have been there from the start and caught up a while back :P It's no mean feat to read this whole thing, so thanks for your time!_

_Lyrics Quote: __**I'd rather be anything but ordinary please**__ - Anything But Ordinary - Avril Lavigne_

_And Another Lyrics Quote (slightly more relevant): __**The blackness would hit me, and the Void would be calling...**__- Time Warp - Rocky Horror Show (reminded me of Sithis)_

_

* * *

_______

Chapter 30

The Breton witch leant across the table, her fingers laced together and her weight resting on her elbows, her blue eyes dancing from the vampiric mer to the Argonian accompanying him and back again. Before her on the table they placed soul gem after soul gem, magicka radiating from the stones every time they came into contact with the wood or with each other.

Melisande's eyes darted quickly across the gems in front of her, counting the numbers before her lips curled slightly at the corners and she spoke finally: "You have collected ten empty Grand Soul Gems. I am impressed. However one does not simply make a cure for your affliction out of thin air; I require ingredients to dispel the disease from every aspect of your soul."

"Tell us what you require and we will find them," Turner told her firmly. What he said was the truth, _he_ would find the ingredients no matter what.

She sat back in her chair and affixed the vampire in her cold blue stare. "Once you are cured you will never be able to become a vampire again," she said smoothly. "You may still contract Porphyric Haemophilia if you choose to battle creatures of the night, but it was be the same as any other disease to you. You will lose all the benefits of having been a vampire. Do you still wish to proceed?"

Seanturco was slightly thrown by her question. "Of course!" he replied without hesitation. "This past month has been among the worst of my life. I've done things I would never have dreamt of doing before I... was infected. I have no feeling of sentimentality for my condition and await the end of this turmoil swiftly."

This time Melisande's lips curled into a definite smile and she chuckled with a vague sense of amusement. "Child, the Glenmoril Witches have been healing lycans and vampires since before you were born. Do you think this is the first time a vampire has claimed to wish to be healed and then decided that they prefered their life as a member of the undead? You are tragically mistaken. There is no reversing the effects of the potion that I will brew. I sense regret in your mannerisms, guilt... Returning to your former state will not rid you of the guilt..."

"I know what the consequences of my actions are," the vampire snapped back angrily, fangs bared as a sign of aggression. "What are the ingredients that you require?"

"Fate has not finished with you yet mage," she retorted, plunging the entire shack into an eerie silence around her. Minutes passed in which nobody said a word, then the witch leant forward again, strands of white hair falling past her shoulders across her face. "For your potions I shall need four shoots of Bloodgrass, twelve cloves of garlic, ten leaves of nightshade, the ashes of a powerful vampire and..." she paused a moment to grin sinisterly, her eyes lingering once more on the only other technically living soul in the room. "The blood of an Argonian."

The last ingredient made Turner do a double take and almost reach for his throat in self defence; Seanturco was so desperate to be cured now that he would do anything to regain his humanity, _anything_. "Where do we acquire these ingredients?" the Argonian questioned, hoping that the witch had another of his race in mind for the blood donor.

"Garlic is a common ingredient used in cooking, you will find it in most shops that sell food, and nightshade is an ingredient of alchemy so may easily be purchased or harvested from wild plants. Bloodgrass does not grow naturally on Nirn but on the plains of Oblivion; during this current '_crisis_' it should not be too difficult to discover." She had used the word 'crisis' with so much sarcasm in her tone that she sounded as if she did not believe there really was a crisis, but neither Seanturco nor Turner wished to ask her exactly what she thought it actually was lest they pried too far into her past and she refused to help them. "The blood of an Argonian must be collected on an enchanted dagger that I will provide. Any Argonian is eligible, but the amount of blood necessary is not enough to prove fatal to one who is healthy, so perhaps you might consider using a non-lethal stab wound to acquire your blood. As for the ashes of a powerful vampire, I suggest you travel south of here to a cave named Redwater Slough - I will provide you with a map - and end the life of a vampire named Hindaril living there. He will not be alone and will not be an easy kill. If you return alive I will truly be astounded."

"Why an Argonian?" the assassin blurted out, airing his thoughts accidentally. He knew exactly who was going to end up giving blood to this cause and he did not like the idea of it one bit.

The Breton's lips curled into an evil smile. "What other race has complete immunity to diseases and poisons? One will never find an Argonian vampire. Khajiti vampires are difficult to find, but possible. Argonians will never be infected. You of all people should have known this..."

xxx

Idari had always known her hatred for Bravil was not entirely unnecessary. Perhaps Bravil had once been great, perhaps it had grown into the scum she saw before her today. At present it looked like it had been built by a blind follower of Sheogorath who had been drinking for weeks and had married a mudcrab... Or perhaps the mudcrab part was taking it too far?

Needless to say, the trudged through the streets of Bravil sourly to perform her final duty to the town, passing the notorious skooma den as she went. The guards in Bravil were as useless as their count; it was the only city so far in which the guards had made no attempt whatsoever to assault the Oblivion gate that had opened up before them and even now they did nothing to prevent the drugs trade there that even people in Bruma were aware of. So Bravil was the best place for the scum of Cyrodiil, Idari supposed, the drug addicts, the drug dealers, the prostitutes, the thieves, the murderers. She wouldn't have been surprised if every single townsperson had some sort of heinous addition to their criminal records and had bribed the count into letting them live there. The Count's own son was a skooma addict too.

She had a plan, for now, to speak with the count of Bravil about sending aid to Bruma before returning to the Jerall Mountains herself to see if Martin had deciphered any more of the Mysterium Xarxes and knew of any other quests he wished to send her on while she was in the area. Balancing hero with villain was proving rather a task for her at the moment, but her theory was that her threats to the Argonian would allow him to find the cure before she had completed the task that Martin assigned to her, this meant that she could see Baurus off in the right direction to finding Reron and bringing him back before she returned to her life as an assassin for a while.

Bravil was one of those cities that had been dumped rather unceremoniously on top of three small islands that were neither connected to the mainland nor to each other, the climate of the area was damp and smelly on account of the marshes and the river nearby, including a tributary of the Larsius River that ran through the centre of the town and, despite serving its purposes as a sewer outlet, it was often seen frequented by one of the female Argonians who made her living in the town. In contrast to the rest of the squalid little town however, the castle and her gardens were really quite beautiful and well looked after by people who actually cared.

It was evident to Idari just who the Count of Bravil was actually looking out for.

She pushed open the door to the Great Hall of the castle forcefully, enough to make the hinges groan in complaint and almost crash into the walls on the other side. They would have done too, if a female guard had not gotten in the way to prevent this from happening. She wore a white Bravil cuirass to show which count she worked for and her hair was close cropped and held out of her eyes with a dirty cloth band tied crudely around her head in a seeming attempt to appear a little more masculine. Unlike other guards though she carried a silver longsword, something usually only seen on guard captains, and she carried no shield. Idari was fairly sure that Caelia Draconis had been the only female guard captain in Cyrodiil, but there was always a chance that this woman had only recently been promoted.

The Dark Elf did not stop to apologise to the woman that she had almost crushed and stomped forwards into the throne room. Count Regulus Terentius had apparently once been a great man, a just man, but it seemed that the power of his position had gone to his head and now he was as bad as the rest of them: a hopeless snob. That's what all counts and countesses turned into eventually, unless they had some horrible event in their lives to bring them back to reality, most notably Janus Hassildor of Skingrad with his reclusiveness brought on by his vampirism and Countess Millona Umbranox of Anvil who was forced to work through the disappearance of her husband ten years previously; people often said that disappearing was the best thing her husband ever did... but nobody could ever quite remember why.

"I am Count Regulus Terentius of Bravil," the Imperial count before her said, waving away one of the townsfolk who had come to him to complain about some portion of the filthy town in favour of someone who evidently brought more interesting conversation. "I am rather busy so I-"

Something snapped. "How dare you imply that _you_ are busy," the Dunmer growled at him without raising her voice. "You who sits on your pompous backside all day while your city crumbles around you..." This count was a man she had always planned upon giving a piece of her mind about the state of his town, but she had always intended to have a go _after_ she had secured aid for Bruma.

"Your insolence is unprecendented. Who do you think you are?" Terentius snapped back at her.

Idari blinked at him, her red eyes burning. If looks could kill her murder count would be far higher than it was already, and the Count of Bravil would be the newest addition to the ever expanding list of victims. "I am the Hero of Kvatch," she said simply, folding her arms. The Breton citizen who had been there to complain gasped audibly and his jaw fell open so that he looked like a gaping idiot; Idari was about to tell him as much, but she thought better of it. "Grandmaster Jauffre has sent me to acquire aid for Bruma in this time of peril. He says you had his letter."

"And he had my reply," the count told her sternly. "I cannot send men to Bruma until the threat to my city has been neutralised!"

"You are more idiotic than you are useless," she replied coldly. "If you took a moment to even glance from your castle window you would see that I have already closed the gate outside your city and have come to inform you that Jauffre expects your men in the Jerall Mountains immediately."

The Imperial scowled. "Very well. I will send my guard captain, Viera Lerus. I cannot spare any more. I trust Grandmaster Jauffre will be satisfied?"

"Your commitment to your country it pitiful," the Dark Elf scolded him angrily. "If Bruma falls then the whole of Tamriel will fall with it, even you and your skooma-sucking son."

"Get out of my castle," Regulus threatened through gritted teeth, and the guards around him seemed to get the message as they reached for their swords almost instinctively. He leant forward on his throne, hands gripping the arms until his knuckles almost turned white.

"I'll show myself out shall I?" Idari asked sarcastically, a sadistic smile creeping onto her dark features. She had touched a raw nerve insulting his son like that and she had also guaranteed aid for Bruma.

Not bad for a single day's work.

xxx

"We should go to the West Weald," Seanturco suggested as they emerged once more from the home of the last Glenmoril witch of Cyrodiil.

"Why?"

"Nightshade is common there... and there's garlic in almost every house. I don't know why people think that garlic affects vampires; I don't feel any different when I'm around it."

Turner paused a moment to drag up a memory from his time in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. He had expected it to be more painful to remember his fallen Brothers and Sisters, but he felt strangely unaffected by this thought. "I knew a vampire who was allergic to garlic once. He often commented that he was the only one who felt this affliction, as far as his studies revealed. It is obviously a rare trait of vampires."

The High Elf chuckled quietly. "Vampiric traits," he muttered. "Resistance to normal weapons, weakness to garlic. Ironic that a chef could do a vampire more damage than a guardsman ever could, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know, guard _captains_ often carry around silver swords that could rip a vampire to pieces, let alone a person. The Hero of Kvatch always carries a silver weapon, and I have a daedric sword; I don't suppose any vampires would want to run into either of us... Which is why I need to go to Redwater Slough and slay this vampire, collect his ashes for this cure. You can go to Skingrad if you wish..."

Seanturco shook his head firmly. "I'm not going into any city alone after what happened last time," he said with added emphasis on the word 'alone'. "I do not wish to kill any more people than I ought to, than I already have. I will accompany you to Redwater Slough; who knows when you might need some magic?"

Turner froze abruptly. "I will be walking into a nest of vampires," he said awkwardly. "If I bleed even so much as a drop, I'm going to be eaten alive, and I'm going to need my blood for her accursed enchanted dagger as well. I don't want to add to the number of vampires I'm going to be needing to avoid, and I don't want to run the risk of slaying you along with them..."

"Then let me teach you a Restoration spell," the vampire insisted forcefully. "I have scrolls if you can't get it, but it's a simple spell and the magicka cost is low so you shouldn't be fatigued by it... Invisibility isn't going to work in there; I have discovered recently that vampires can see perfectly in the dark and that Detect Life enchantments are almost natural to them. Also, you forget that I too once walked into a nest of vampires... I know exactly what to expect of them and I can help you, even if I agree that perhaps my assisting you might not be the best plan either of us have ever had."

"I once trained with a vampire," the Argonian recalled briefly. "They are faster and stronger naturally than I would be even if I put in years of practice and work. I won't be able to use my bow in there either; it's dark and they move too quickly and my equipment is looking pretty dilapidated. The vampires may be able to see in the dark, but _I_ can't... We really need the Hero of Kvatch right now, don't we?"

Seanturco sighed deeply. "I fear you may be right, but I _know_ that we may be drawn and quartered if we return empty-handed, most likely myself first. I would enter the cave alone, since it is my life that will be saved by these actions, but I have no training with a sword... And I doubt I'd even be able to _lift_ that," he added, gesturing to the daedric sword held at the assassin's hip.

"That is why I am going," Turner replied, his face set. "I have poor to average fighting skills, a useless bow, no magicka and a useless birthsign to my name, but somehow it seems as though the odds have never been more in my favour. These are not daedra, these are mortal flesh and blood - albeit undead flesh and blood - and, unlike the daedra, they are not expendable and there are a finite number to kill before I simply have to succeed. If you ever go into Oblivion you'll understand." He glanced down at the map in his armoured hand and then up at the sun to get his bearings. "Redwater Slough is due south of here," he said, indicating the direction he was referencing with his free hand. "If we're quick I would say we can get there before nightfall, and hopefully before all the hardcore night-stalking vampires wake up hungry. I don't particularly want to end up as someone's midnight snack..."

xxx

If he did not have peripheral vision Martin Septim would have jumped out of his skin when the assassin first spoke to him in his quarters in Cloud Ruler Temple as dusk approached in mid Evening Star. The wind crashed against the wooden walls violently and the snow was falling more thickly than average, so he found himself wondering just how she had made it all the way up here in one piece, but then he remembered her demonic horse...

She was leaning against a section of his wall that was not lit with candlelight with her arms folded and one ankle crossed over the other, her hood pulled down over her face but a thin strip of blue skin visible beneath it. He was reminded that he had not seen her in quite some time but had barely noticed, so engrossed was he in his research of the Mysterium Xarxes. He had barely noticed Jauffre in all this time either, and the fact that Baurus had slightly relaxed his fierce loyalty to his would-be Emperor was entirely lost on the heir to the Cyrodilic throne, but he had noticed _her_ as she slipped inside silently. Perhaps he had noticed the slight flickering of the candles that lit the room as the air was forced aside the accomodate for her, or perhaps it was the ominous shadow that seemed to follow her wherever she went, but somehow Martin found it incredibly difficult not to notice her, no matter how hard she tried not to be seen.

She was speaking now. What was she saying? He listened. "Do you know what the next ingredient of the ritual is?" he presumed she was asking, considering he had only caught the last few words and had had to form the sentence in his head.

Martin thought briefly and then nodded. "We already have an artifact of the Daedric Lords, but now we must find an artifact of the Nine... Aedra do not leave relics like Daedra do, so there is only one plausible candidate."

"Talos," she said, pushing herself away from the wall and moving to stand in front of his desk, placing her hands flat on the table and leaning on them heavily. "The One. He ascended, unlike the others who were simply _created_, so he had a chance to leave his mark on Nirn. Where do you need me to search?"

"The Armour of Tiber Septim was sealed away by the Blades into a place called Sancre Tor - you'll have to ask Jauffre the location - but apparently it remains haunted to this day by the souls of the men instructed to guard that place so many years ago. I would not recommend going alone."

She laughed slightly, the whiteness of her teeth reflecting in the candlelight from his desk. "Martin, I saved Kvatch alone, I think I can take on a few undead Blade souls easily enough." Something in the way she spoke made the Imperial almost instantly inclined to believe her too. She was more than capable of handling herself. "Has Jauffre sent men to Morrowind yet?" she asked, changing the subject rapidly.

Martin shrugged. "I'm afraid I barely know _what_ Jauffre is doing nowadays. He stops in here every day to ask how I'm faring and suggest that I begin training for the role I will play in relighting the Dragonfires, but mostly he respects that I must translate this book at the utmost haste and leaves me alone to do so. You will have to speak with him yourself, and be sure to ask for the location of Sancre Tor while you're at it!"

She stood straight again and took two precise steps backwards away from the candlelight, the darkness that consumed the rest of the room embracing her as if welcoming back its sister. "I shall take my leave now," she stated quietly, and Martin could have sworn she was gone before he'd even had time to blink. All of a sudden there was no trace of her in the room at all, no footprints, no sounds, not even a smell.

It was as if she had never been there at all.

xxx

The Argonian and the Altmer stood in front of the rickety wooden door to Redwater Slough with a certain sense of solemnity about them. The door and whoever or whatever was on the other side of it radiated pure foreboding and terror to the surrounding areas and so the entire area was devoid of all creatures except mudcrabs who were so insignificant that they could be killed with a swift kick anyway.

"Friend, I will grant you with a spell of Night-Eye that I will maintain for you," the mage said quietly. "While Detect Life would be more useful for your cause, I fear that it would be useless against undead creatures. You carry both of our fates on your shoulders when you go in there, it's the least I can do for you."

Turner smiled weakly and withdrew his sword from his belt as smoothly as he could manage. "I don't intend upon dying. If I do the Hero of Kvatch will hunt me down in the Void and torture me for all eternity, which would be rather... uncomfortable. But if, judging by the rather large chance that I don't make it, things don't go according to plan, I just want to say that I'm sorry for failing so spectacularly and... tell the Hero of Kvatch that I'm sorry too, and tell her thank you for getting me out of Bruma and showing me what the world is really like. I owe her a lot and I don't think she quite realises how much. Cast your spells now. I'll be going in a minute."

The High Elf muttered the words of a Night-Eye enchantment before speaking again. "Well, friend, may Auri-El watch over you and may Mara guide you. It is a great deed you do today." He paused a moment to examine the slightly puzzled expression on the Argonian's face. "Auri-El is the name that we mer use for Akatosh. May the Nine lead you on your quest."

"I can only hope they don't want to muck up with their favourite plaything again," the assassin muttered as he opened the door a crack and slipped inside.

In an instant he was glad that he had the Night-Eye enchantment because the area around him was almost pitch black and the ground underneath was treacherous at best. The spell gave the area a faint blue haze and made it difficult to see where shadows fell, but it gave him a much clearer view and instantly his eyes locked onto a rat, probably a vampire, that was scurrying around in the darkness.

The rat spotted him in the slither of light thrown by the doorway and lunged, screeching as it did so. Turner swung his sword in the direction of the creature and winced slightly as the daedric blade tore through its flesh like a knife passing through butter and its body was cleaved in two effortlessly. He didn't see blood, something for which he was glad, which led him to believe all the more fully that the animal he had put an end to was a vampire. Vampires didn't bleed, their blood was stagnant in their veins and healed extraordinarily quickly, even when they died again. That was how people could tell vampiric corpses from other corpses.

He continued on through the cavern, taking as much care as he could to muffle his footsteps as he walked and to stay alert enough so that he wasn't ambushed by a pack of vampires and ripped into a million little pieces. The cavern petered out slightly the further he walked, and a small doorway was bored into the cold stone at the back to reveal a long tunnel stretching in both directions. To the left the tunnel rushed off into the darkness and, despite the blueness of his field of vision, he could make out a pool of water formed at the far end that threw the few specks of light up into the ceiling; to the right, however, was a wooden door that, upon testing, was locked tightly from the other side.

_Typical_, Turner thought sourly, glancing around with a sense of apprehension at having to spend a moment longer than necessary in this cave. He took a second look at the door and the locking mechanism and came to a quick decision. _I know what Idari would do in this situation_. He raised his weapon slightly and pushed the blade through the small gap between the wall and the wood of the door, bringing it down as forcefully as he could manage until he heard the lock crunch as it broke under the contact of the far more resistant metal. He winced at the sound; he knew that vampires had far superior hearing to him and would no doubt know something was amiss now even if they hadn't already been alerted by the squealing of the rat.

The door swung open with a screeching sound to reveal a continuation of the tunnel but still no sign of life. He turned about to check for anything that might be sneaking up on him and took a step forward cautiously. Immediately his felt light-headed as his nostrils burned with the scent of blood, though his blue field of vision showed nothing to give away just where the scent was coming from. Something fresh and alive had died here recently.

Fear gripped him in its icy cold grasp and his heartbeat quickened to a rate that a vampire might have been able to hear in the Jerall Mountains, let alone at the other end of the same corridor. His ears filled with the sound of his own heart and with the dreadful sound of hissing.

He ran, trying to keep an eye on the pathway behind him and in front of him at the same time without tripping over. His feet pounded against the stone floor almost as quickly as his heart pounded into his ears; he raised his sword as he ran, supporting it in both hands and hoping that adrenaline would allow his senses to keep up with the speed of the vampires when they attacked.

The tunnel widened slightly into a small room and a blurred motion alerted him to the presence of his first vampire. The Argonian swung his sword in the direction of the shift in the air and was not at all surprised when he hit nothing in particular. _Run_, his mind shouted at his body to no particular avail. _Kill Hindaril and get out of here_.

He didn't obey. He _couldn't_ obey. He swung his sword again, flinching as it struck something questionable and passed all the way through to the sound of a pained hiss that sounded almost strangled. There was no blood, there was no reason for there to be, but the sound of a dagger hitting the floor was followed by a sound like rushing sand as his assailant literally dissolved into a pile of ash. He looked down at the blue-hued ground and scowled, kicking the pile of ash in annoyance and continuing on, his heart lifted about how simple it would be to take out this vampire. The one who had attacked him just now was a human at some point, and judging by the name this _Hindaril_ was a mer, most likely a High Elf.

The tunnel branched and the overpowering scent of blood returned and Turner, despite his body's desires to turn and run, continued down the left hand passage towards a faint light. He knew he was in the right place; candles burnt softly and illuminated the room slightly, coffins were dotted around sinisterly surrounded by long dead corpses of adventurers. An Altmer stood before him with red eyes that burned sadistically, fangs protruding from his top lip as it curled into an evil smile.

"An Argonian?" he said with a chuckle. "I have not tasted Argonian in such a _long_ time..." His clothes might not have been red originally, but they were so spattered with blood that it was difficult to tell what colour they were. "This Argonian is an adventurer, it seems, to release my clan and I from our imprisonment in this blasted cave. It will be good to taste the blood of the innocent people roundabouts this area instead of the _creatures_ that inhabited this hell before us." He laughed again, virtually cackled. "I seem to recall that I was not partial to the taste of _Argonian_, but after two centuries one learns that one must not be picky; _you'll do_ for a light _snack_."

The vampire lunged forwards and Turner swung his sword only to have it wrenched from his fingers and flung across the room where it clattered unceremoniously to the floor. A powerful kick landed in his ribs and he flew through the air, smashing into the wall like a disguarded toy, his ribs smashed and his lungs burning for the air that has been forced from them. Then his limbs froze involuntarily and the vampire was upon him, lifting him from the ground with as little as one hand and he felt a stab of almost undescribable pain as fangs sank into the flesh of his neck.

_This is it_, his mind said in a futile attempt to comfort himself as he felt his blood leaving his body. He began to feel light-headed rather quickly, and the last thing he saw before the world went black was a flash of bright light as he heard the welcome call of Sithis.

* * *

_Author Note: Whaaa-? A cliffhanger? Sorry. Poor Turner might die :(_

_Anyway, this chapter took me an AGE... because I have a plan up to chapter 33 and I knew what NEEDED to happen in this one to make the others work to the time frame. Also, a couple of days ago, I figured out how this story will end, but I don't know WHEN, so don't worry yourselves, it ain't gonna be soon. Next chapter isn't going to have much to do with everyone's favourite High Elf/Argonian duo, but I'll resolve your cliffhanger for ya. If you think long enough about one little sentence in it, you'll know what's going to happen._

_OK, I need a beta, I think. If anyone wants to help then let me know. Thanks_

_And... The Christmas Holidays have started, sooooo... I'm either gonna be writing faster or slower from now on in, so stay vigilant. I don't write vampires as well as Laluzi, but I tried, I really did. Dang and blast it. AND TODAY (12/12/10) IS THE SIX MONTH ANNIVERSARY OF THIS STORY. WOW_

_Oh well. Toodles._

**_BY THE NINE, TODAY THEY ANNOUNCED THAT THEY'RE MAKING TES V: SKYRIM! YESSSSSSS_**


	31. Blood of the Divines

_*Grin* 8 reviews_

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Chapter 31

"Sancre Tor was sealed by the first Grandmaster of the Blades in 3E36, every person who has travelled there to explore has not returned, and you wish to tell me that _Martin Septim_ asked you to go there and retrieve the _armour_ of _Tiber Septim_ alone?" Jauffre asked in disbelief, running over what she had just told him in his mind.

The Hero folded her arms and nodded. "That's about it," she replied nonchalently. "So tell me where it is already."

The Grandmaster blinked slowly. "Did I fail to mention that no man has ever returned from an expedition there?"

The Dunmer laughed. "No _man_?" she repeated. "I think it is quite clear that I am not a man, or a human, or a Blade. I have taken on Oblivion singlehandedly several times and, largely, I have returned unharmed. Besides, without this relic Tamriel will fall. I have better things I could be doing with my time than trying to persuade you to tell me the location of a ruin." She unfolded her arms languidly and turned as if to leave. "I'm sure somebody else will tell me where it is anyway..."

"Wait," the Breton growled in exasperation, causing her to whip back around to face him. He delved into his pocket and pulled out a small silver key. "You wouldn't be able to get in without this key. A spell was placed on the lock to make it unpickable to stop looters from stealing the Emperor's holy armour. There is an unmarked road running north from Chorrol and documentations tell that Sancre Tor is among the largest forts ever built; you will find it. I will send men with you if you need."

Idari snatched the key from his hand before she replied. "I prefer to fight alone. It saves me having to keep them out of danger..."

"You fight with that Argonian..."

"Have you sent soldiers to Morrowind yet?" There was no hesitation, she just changed the subject instinctively.

Jauffre sighed. "I have dispatched a total of four men," he explained slowly. "They are sweeping Vvardenfell for survivers and eventually ending up in the ruins of Vivec. From there they will return to Cloud Ruler via Mournhold, allowing the survivers to go their own ways from there. Is that satisfactory?"

"And my parents?"

"... Will be difficult to locate since you wouldn't give us a clan name, however my men will do their best. Of course, now that we have sent this rescue mission I expect full co-operation from you and complete focus on our cause. I understand that during periods in which His Highness is deciphering the text you will want to get back to... your _guild_, but at any other point I expect you _here_, or in Oblivion acquiring soldiers to come _here_. Do we have an understanding?"

Idari huffed indignantly. She did not cope well with authoritative figures. "I don't suppose I have much choice. I shall return with the Armour of Tiber Septim in a few days." She turned on her heels sharply, pocketing the small key into one of the many pockets in her leather armour for the time when it would serve its purpose upon arrival at Sancre Tor.

And she was gone. Jauffre had expected as much; he knew by now that she didn't waste words on anything or anyone... except perhaps that Argonian. What was going on between them? The Grandmaster wholeheartedly expected he would not live long enough to find out.

xxx

Pain.

Indescribable pain.

That was all the young Argonian could think about when he came to. It was almost pitch black around him and for a moment he thought he might have found the Void after all. Death by vampire was ironic for one who had managed to befriend one over the previous month. He tried to sit up until he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" the mage said to him, casting a Light spell so that the cavern was illuminated. He hadn't needed to see in the dark himself, but now it seemed fitting to light the place up for his companion. "You're lucky you can't get infected though..."

"What are you-?" Turner trailed off, gritting his teeth through the latest wave of pain.

"Doing here? Well it's a good job I was here, because that vampire almost made you lunch. Paralysed you and took your blood. I'm not amazing at Restoration, so you should probably get your ribs looked at, he pretty much smashed them in..."

"Where-?"

"Turned into a pile of ash. I was right about one thing though... I can't lift your sword..." He glanced about, his eyes glinting in the magical light. "You're one of the lucky ones," he continued with a heavy sigh.

The Argonian frowned. "How did you cope with the blood?" he asked, finally managing to form a full sentence without being cut off by the vampiric poison in his bloodstream.

Seanturco shrugged. "I drank one of the bottles of blood you gave me before I entered, so that I wouldn't be... _thirsty_, and I made sure I stopped you bleeding as soon as I took care of Hindaril and his cronies... I _literally_ blazed a path through this cave, there was fire everywhere and... well, I had to up my resistance to it by quite a considerable margin to stop myself turning to ash. I might have burnt you too, but I don't suppose you'll be able to tell until the pain subsides."

"We need to get going..." Turner protested, trying to sit up again and meeting the same resistance as before.

The vampire shook his head. "That's what I said when I was bitten and look at me now. You might not be able to catch the disease, but I'm sure Argonians can turn into vampires if they are bitten like you were. I've cast every cure disease, cure poison, et cetera spell I could remember on you, but we'll be able to tell if they worked in a couple of hours."

"And if I am turned?"

"Then I'll take you back to Ohtesse to cure the diseases. Argonians are resistant to poisons and diseases, but there are some that bypass the resistance..."

Memories of Teinaava flooded back, killed with a poisoned apple alongside Antoinetta Marie. If an Argonian was killed by a poison then what chance would a feeble Breton have ever had? Turner's breath caught in his throat sending a burning pain through his broken ribs and battered lungs. The method of Teinaava's death had confused him for a while but had ultimately slipped from his mind, finally slipping into place when Seanturco had mentioned that.

"What's wrong?" the vampire questioned, sounding slightly concerned.

"Just an epiphany," the Argonian replied, brushing aside the question quickly. "Are you sure you want to stay here? You could leave, you know, go and cure yourself, return to your life..."

"If I was going to run I wouldn't have wasted my magicka saving your life," Seanturco explained simply with a small smirk. "I would have stabbed you with an enchanted dagger and left you for dead, leaving vampires to swarm around you and eat you... But I'm still here," he sighed heavily, his time grinning so that the tips of his fangs glinted in the mage light. "I saved your life. Why would I go all that trouble to save you from vampires if I was going to leave? You could have made a tasty snack!"

Turner groaned. "You're the second person who's said that today!" he complained sourly. "The other guy actually started to eat me as well! You're the third person to save my life this week too... I think I'm just having a bad day."

xxx

Idari Mortha gazed up at the fort in front of her with little more than a feeling of intrigue. It was an Ayleid fort, and a big one too, it's name, Sancre Tor, was Ayleid for Golden Hill and yet somehow it didn't seem particularly _golden_ anymore. Perhaps it had been, before it had been filled with living skeletons and partially demolished by looters attempting to get in. She was fairly certain that she wasn't the first person who had turned up at the entrance of Sancre Tor looking to find the Armour of Tiber Septim, but she was definitely going to be the first to walk away with it.

She had dispatched six skeletons before she had even reached the door. They were not difficult to take care of as they were barely held together and had so little brain matter left that they had a tendency to attack each other by accident, but that did not stop them proving a nuisance and mildly annoying the Dunmer as she hacked them to pieces.

Having dealt with that slight problem she approached the door and inspected it closely. It was made of wood, but not a flimsy wood like so many of the doors she had been supposed to have been kept out by, perhaps oak of some description, and at least two inches thick. The lock was made of silver and was so heavily enchanted that it was virtually glowing, even after years of doing nothing but guard its priceless treasure. Idari reached into her pocket and pulled out the small key, surprised by how easily it fitted into the lock and how smoothly it turned. Fixed above the lock was a plaque that had seen better days and, unlike the lock beneath it, was not kept fresh by magic. The inscription upon it was barely legible in some places, completely illegible in others, and seemed to be saying something about the sealing of this ruin, however Idari merely ignored it, pushing the heavy door open and stepping inside silently.

The hallway she found herself in was impossibly dark once the door had shut on its own accord and the smell was a mixture of rotting matter and essence of magicka. The whole place simply radiated magic from every stone, but she had expected as much from the shrine to an Emperor who had achieved apotheosis. Ascension to divinity was hardly something that occured every day. She cast Night-Eye upon herself and set off with her silver shortsword drawn in her left hand and her katana in her right. On the floor lay a skeleton that was so old that it virtually turned to dust at its brief exposure to the wind as the door had shut, a dagger that was clasped in its bony hand clattered to the floor noisily, sparks of electricity flying from it involutarily. She ignored it for now, pushing the dagger aside with one foot and continuing on past.

The tunnel was long and she stepped forward slowly, muffling her own footsteps naturally. She turned a corner and found herself face to face with a gloom wraith wielding what looked like an elven longsword in one hand, an eerie purple glow surrounding it. On the right of the tunnel she saw the statue of an old emperor, it's age evident by its broken blade and missing head; it might have been regal one day, perhaps a symbol of some great dynasty, but now it was little more than a broken relic. She sent a bolt of electricity through the wraith and, dodging its sword with relative ease, drove her own silver shortsword through the ghost's 'body', a smile gracing her lips as she watched its life energy disappear in a cloud of smoke and the remains falling to the floor in a pile of ash of cloth.

Undead. Why did they exist? She had not yet found the answer, but she had found the method for preventing their existance several years previously. However, to avoid any future run-ins, she cast a chameleon enchantment upon herself and carried on forwards.

She descended the stairs soundlessly, keeping her weapons drawn instinctively and increasing her speed to almost a jog as she ran past a second wraith and a ghost that was so ancient that it had virtually faded from existance with time. The fact that this ruin was so filled with undead and so teaming with magic was not a good sign for her being able to simply walk away with the Armour of Tiber Septim. There had a be a catch; there was always a catch.

At the end of the passageway and several undead later she caught a glimpse of a strange blue light which, upon closer inspection, was a fire burning. It had to be a magical fire to still be burning after all these centuries, but what was stranger was the skeleton dragging its feet wearing the remanents of a suit of chainmail armour and a helmet that looked vaguely reminiscent of the armour still worn by the Blades to this day, there was also a strangely eerie looking magical amulet slung around its neck. On the skeleton's back hung a rusted Akaviri katana in a worn out leather scabbard that had been weathered by time.

She watched the skeleton walk about for a few moments and then hit it with a powerful fireball spell, fully aware that she was breaking her cover. She wanted answers, and something about the way this undead Blade was so confined about this magical fire spoke volumes to her about the only place she could expect anything from. She wasn't disappointed; the bones of the undead Blade flew in all directions and the helmet clattered to the ground loudly, the sound echoing around the almost silent halls.

Idari folded her arms and waited for something she wasn't even sure was going to happen, watching the dissipated bones closely as she renewed her chameleon charm in the wake of announcing her position to likely the entire ruin. She was not disappointed; a few minutes later the ghost of an Imperial stood before her, his armour worn but obviously that of the Blades. He looked about as if he were lost, blinking against the magical light thrown by the blue flames.

"Who has freed me?" he asked, glancing down at the slightly scorched bones that he had once had full control of so many years previously.

The Dunmer shifted her wait from one foot to the other. "I am the Champion of the current Emperor," she said simply, and immediately ghostly eyes snapped to her location. "Who are you? Or rather, who were you? And where is the Armour of Tiber Septim?"

The Blade blinked slowly, comprehending her question. "I was Rielus, loyal Blade of Emperor Tiber Septim. I have no idea how long I have been dead, but it feels like an eternity. My brothers and I were sent to these halls to discover the source of an evil infestation by our Emperor when we were captured by the Underking, Zurin Arctus, and bound to haunt this place forever. The same spell that was placed on us binds the Armour of our Lord to this place, but the centuries have given my brothers and I time to devise a way to break the Underking's curse. If you can free them also we will repay you, Champion, by lifting this curse, for I fear you will be unable to achieve your goal without us. It would be the least we could do after freeing us from this fate, then we may finally go to Aetherius after all these years."

Idari unfolded her arms and placed them on her hips, tapping her foot on the floor. "How many 'brothers' did you have with you?"

"There were four of us. Valdemar, Casnar, Alain and myself. I fell first to the Underking's curse, so I cannot give you information on their locations, but I do not suppose that a mage like you should have much trouble..."

"A mage?" she asked, slightly amused. "I assure you, you are the first person to _ever_ call me a mage. You needn't think of a way to describe me. I shall hold up my end of the deal if you will hold up yours."

Rielus nodded in the direction of the invisible entity and walked towards the door, passing through it easily enough. Idari followed him, despite not having the luxury of being able to go through the door, she opened it with minimal effort and took stock of her surroundings. This room was large and circular, adourned with peculiar runestones and more broken statues of emperors past. For the most part it was devoid of enemies too, apart from a wraith that seemed to have taken up residence on a walkway leading down to a door that was slightly lower than the others and the ghost of Rielus, whom the wraith ignored as he made his way towards the door. Beneath the walkway was a pool of water that appeared to be steaming but did not seem to be radiating any heat of its own, and skirting the edge of the room was another, wider walkway with doors leading out of it in all directions.

She followed the walkway to the left until she reached a small passageway that led to a door with a small plaque on it reading 'prison'. With a small sigh she opened it and stepped inside. This place was more eerie than before, a long tunnel covered in cobwebs and filth, twisting a turning in every which way until she ascended a set of stairs and came face to face with another skeleton.

The skeleton was clearly not an undead Blade, he carried only an iron mace and around his neck hung a key that was as old as the bones carrying it, covered in a thick film of rust. The Dunmer's best guess was that he was some form of prison guard and, looking around, she saw the door that the key must open. It was a wooden doorway that was so old that it would probably break into splinters at a touch and the lock was so rusted that the key would have little to no effect on it period. She left the skeleton be, unlocking the door using magic and carrying onwards.

From that point cells lined the walls of the corridor on an increasingly frequent basis, most filled with varying forms of undead, usually sentient ghosts or dilapidated old skeletons, but at the end of the corridor she struck gold as the final cell contained a skeleton garbed in rusted armour and wearing a Blades helmet and carrying an ancient Akaviri katana and old shield. It was locked between two iron gates and placing endlessly about its cell, nearby a blue fire burned similar to the one that Rielus' remains has been traipsing around. A bolt of electricity sent bones flying in all directions with a sharp crackling sound and in a few moments the creaking skeleton was replaced by the ghost of a Nord.

"You freed me," he said to the thin air in front of him, as if he could see the chameleoned mer before him. "Free my brothers if they are still enslaved and together we will cleanse the Shrine of the Underking's foul magic."

"Your name, Nord?" Idari asked with slight exasperation. She already knew the plan.

"I was Valdemar, Blade of Emperor Tiber Septim. I was the last to fall... Alain fell in the catacombs, Rielus fell in the lower chambers and Casnar fell in the Hall of Judgement. Free them and we will lift the curse together so that we may finally return to Sovngaard."

_Why do I get the feeling I've heard this all before?_ Idari questioned herself bitterly, sheathing her katana and renewing her chameleon spell before heading off back down the corridor to the circular entrance hall once more. She followed the walkway once more, passing the doorway to the tunnel she had first found herself in when she had entered this ruin and a small alcove containing an ancient chest until she came to another door. This door was almost identical for the others, save for the rusted metal plaque affixed to it; this one read 'Hall of Judgement' and she stepped inside without hesitation.

She ran through this tunnel, eager to get this task over and done with. It had already taken longer than she had intended it to and she did not wish to waste any more time in this ruin. The undead ignored her as she jogged past them, shrouded in invisibility, feet silent on the stone floor and the halls doused in a slight blue tinge from her Night-Eye enchantment. She saw the strange blue glow before she saw the undead Blade; it carried an Akaviri dai-katana with unique engravings on the handle, magic crackling from it, and wore a Blades helmet, but asides that there was no indication that this skeleton had been anybody special in life.

He lasted as long as his 'brothers' before his remains exploded into a shower of bones and smashed into the nearby walls to echo through the entire ruin. The ghost that appeared was that of the Redguard Casnar.

"We were separated..." he declared blindly, eyes darting about for a sign of his saviour. "The fog separated us... No... That was a dream. I must fulfil my oath to the Emperor before I can finally rest." He turned about and walked away slowly before disappearing through the wall into the rounded chamber and ultimately to dispel the curse upon the once holy place.

Idari smiled slightly and sheathed her katana into its scabbard across her back, keeping her silver shortsword drawn in case of the unlikely event that any of her enemies were equipped with a detect life enchantment. She spun back into the direction that she had been heading in before encountering the third Blade and smiled sinisterly; the tunnel continued onwards and at the very end was a doorway that was far more dilapidated than any of the doors she had faced before. Through the broken wooden slats she could see a dingy blue light and by now had come to understand what that might mean.

The fourth undead Blade, Alain, wore a helmet and carried a shield and an enchanted Akaviri katana that made the entire cavern seem a few degrees colder. Idari grinned; this task was becoming tedious and now would finally come to an end. She snuck towards the skeleton silently and laid a magic-ridden palm on the rickety old bones, delighting as he disintegrated under her touch, frosty sword freezing the ones it fell among.

The ghost of a Breton in full Blades regalia appeared before her. "My brothers and I are free. We shall lift the curse for you now, Champion." She he marched off through the cavern wall swiftly.

The Dunmer grinned once more and ran back through the tunnels to the rounded hall and then across the walkway to the large door at the bottom. This was more important than the others, it was studded with metal and a good three inches thick; the plaque on this door gleamed as if it were brand new. It had probably been enchanted so that it would not fall victim to time. 'Tomb of the Reman Emperors', it read, and Idari stepped inside.

The plaque had been correct, for this room contained the tomb of many Emperors contained within stone effigies of what their bodies were like in life. Reman Cyrodiil, instituter of the Dragonfires, lay in his stone coffin; he had been toppled by the Morag Tong at the end of the First Era, but he had achieved apotheosis. The Worldly God, they called him, once upon a time before the Nine became more powerful and the lesser gods were ignored. Idari doubted anyone even knew the stories anymore.

The four ghosts stood on either side of a long passageway that was shrouded in a thick, frosty fog, obscuring whatever was held at the other end; they drew their ethereal katanas regally and the Imperial spoke: "You have freed my brothers. We will clear this tunnel of the Underking's curse so that you may approach the Armour of our Lord then we will finally be free to travel to Aetherius."

Idari leant against a thick stone pillar to watch them as they chanted some Akaviri words that she couldn't quite understand and drove their swords into the ground, kneeling as they did so, their heads bowed as a sign of humble servitude to the Emperor who's armour still lay shrouded out of reach. Each Blade seemed to break their own individual barrier, the Nord first, then the Breton, then the Redguard, and finally the Imperial. One by one the magical hold of the Underking was broken by the long-dead warriors until the final barrier fell and they all rose to their feet.

"You have done a great deed, Champion," Rielus said, gesturing to the Blades around him who nodded, each bringing their fist across their heart, striking their ghostly breastplates in a sign of honour. "After what feels like an eternity we shall finally reach Aetherius; you however, are free to remove this holy relic. Treat it well. We take our leave now; may the Eight be with you on whatever quest calls you."

The Dark Elf watched with minimal concern as the four ghosts faded from view and then turned, running down the now free tunnel towards the Armour of Tiber Septim. It was golden and gleaming, the decorations etched into it were intricate and would be almost impossible to reproduce, even by magic. She picked it up gingerly, surprised at how much concern she was taking over such an item; despite being covered in the blood of a god it was a priceless artifact, something thieves could only dream of finding, something only the most lucky people would ever lay eyes on. Jauffre would spirit it away into the vaults of Cloud Ruler as soon as Martin was done with it and despite being the Emperor's only heir and the only hope for Tamriel, Idari doubted Jauffre would trust even him to be alone with the relic.

So why had he let her come alone? He didn't trust her. Why should he? She was an assassin who had been present when Uriel Septim had been killed, and yet she was the one entrusted to retrieving the armour of a god from its holy resting place, she would be the one who went to Paradise when the portal was opened, she was the one sent to Oblivion. How did Jauffre know that she wouldn't simply take the armour and run, flog it off in the Imperial City to that corrupted Bosmeri shopkeeper in the Market District and disappear without a trace? He didn't know, but she wouldn't do that, and even she didn't entirely know why.

Maybe one day she would truly understand patriotism.

* * *

_Author Note: So, yeah. This took ages and it's short and it was forced and it was difficult to write and I desperately wanted to finish it so it's awful. *pauses for breath* Please bear in mind that I hadn't played this quest in almost a year and had forgotten everything, and there's only so much you can find on a 2D map on UESP... So I went back and played the quest again..._

_The bit with Turner and Seanturco feels forced to me, but let me know what you think. I had to try so hard to stop it descending into a massive slash fest, because I am NOT going to slash them. Don't get me wrong, I'm a believer in slash, but a) it CAN'T happen, and b) URGH. I like those two characters too much to slash them. The only pairing of my OCs that could work WON'T happen, since Seanturco and Idari hate each others guts._

_So that's that. I won't post again before Christmas, so have a good day when it comes. Merry Christmas all. ~ARTY~_


	32. Vampire Cure

_Thought: Has anyone ever been Listener and Divine Crusader at the same time? It doesn't seem to work, does it? At least in Morrowind you were limited in how many absurd guilds you could join, one Great House, one vampire clan, the Mages Guild hate the Telvannis. It is weird, Oblivion, but a bloody great game. Gotta love it. Bring on Skyrim._

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Chapter 32

The Grandmaster of the Blades paced up and down the walls of Cloud Ruler Temple for the umpteenth time in the past three days. The cold was biting and snapped at his flesh like a hungry wolf but he ignored it, fingers tightened around the battlements as he gazed out towards Bruma, grey eyes scanning the ground he saw before him. The other Blades watched him with curiosity; they had not seen their Grandmaster this tense since they had returned to Cloud Ruler Temple with the Emperor's illegitimate heir months beforehand. They knew the reason though, he was worried about what had become of the Hero of Kvatch on her quest to retrieve the Armour of Tiber Septim.

He wasn't worried about her. Half the fort had heard him voicing his opinions of the Hero to the soon-to-be Emperor on more than one occasion when she took a little too long for his liking to return from the various tasks she'd been set. They didn't know what he was complaining about though; she always came back of her own accord, be it hours late, days late, or even months late. By Jauffre's estimation she should have been gone six days at most, but currently her journey was getting close to taking eleven.

Her midnight armour and blackened stallion stood out from the snow like an Orc in a crowd of Bosmer, and the Blades listened to their Grandmaster shouting orders to them to open the gates, to warn the Heir, to look lively. She walked alongside her horse solemnly, her eyes turned to the white ground beneath her feet, and the animal had what looked like a black rug of some description thrown over it, though not for warmth; all the Blades knew that that demonic horse didn't feel anything.

She walked up the stone stairs of the fort solemnly, her eyes averted to the ground beneath her feet and a hand on her horse's neck - but not to comfort him; it was probably more helpful to herself.

"Did you find the Armour?" Jauffre demanded from her as she walked past, and she ignored him as if she had not heard, so he repeated himself irritably to receive the same reaction.

Her animal stopped walking but she continued walking, past the gathering crowd of Blades towards the barracks. "I need to sleep," she muttered, barely audible above the wind, but not quiet enough for the Grandmaster not to hear.

"Do you have the Armour of Tiber Septim?" Jauffre shouted over the sounds and suddenly everything but the wind went silent. Even he could not calm nature.

Idari turned and looked at him, her eyes betraying no emotion whatsoever. "I need to sleep," she repeated, louder this time. Her voice was monotonal and her accent was stronger than usual. Then she turned from the Grandmaster and walked away.

The Breton growled as his anger swelled inside him. Something snapped. "You will tell me whether you have the Armour of Tiber Septim, or so help me I will have you executed, hero or not."

"Forgive me Jauffre, but I do not believe that the power to execute her lies with you." The voice which replied was undeniably calm and many pairs of eyes turned to see the Emperor's only surviving heir standing in the doorway of the main hall flanked by Captain Steffan and loyal Baurus. This image would have almost been one of authority were he not visibly cringing against the cold while dressed in a simple priest's robe with no cloak to speak of.

"This is not a _game_, sire. This is possibly the most holy relic of Tamriel to ever exist and she insists upon _sleeping_, and this is no time for _sleep_." Jauffre's face was growing redder by the second and visible beads of perspiration lined his face despite the cold.

Martin considered this before his piercing blue eyes travelled to the Hero before him. "Idari," he said softly, though his voice was enough to fill the entire courtyard with sound. "This _is_ rather important. Please, I beg you not to anger the Grandmaster at this time, and if you do have the armour please give it to me so that I may continue to ritual to open a gateway to Paradise."

Red eyes met blue for a brief moment, and then a smile graced her deep blue lips. "Oh, I don't have the Armour," she grinned, noting in her peripheral vision that Jauffre's face had turned a violent shade of scarlet in just a few short seconds. Several of the Blades were exchanging stunned looks when she broke the eerie silence once more: "Shadowmere has it. It's almost the same size as me from the waist upwards; did you expect me to be able to carry it all the way from Chorrol?" She noticed, to her amusement, that the soon-to-be Emperor was visibly supressing a smirk. "You're welcome to it," she added with a triumphant smile. "If you can get him to give it to you without losing a limb. He doesn't bite. Me."

One of the Blades, a Nord, took a step closer to the horse, only to spring backwards when the animal shifted its weight and fixed the offender it his deathly red glare. The Dark Elf grinned evilly.

Martin seemed to compose himself and wiped the smirk from his lips, then he sighed deeply. "Idari, please, this is very important," he said, exasperation evident in his usually calm voice.

The Hero nodded and approached her horse, removing the cloak from his back along with the armour she had presumably kept beneath it to protect it from the wind and ice. "Since _you_ asked nicely..." she muttered as she presented the bundle to the priest. "I wrapped it up to hide it from bandits. It was too big to hide anywhere else."

Jauffre was still scowling. "Why did it take you so long to return?" he growled.

Idari laughed. "There was an Oblivion gate outside Chorrol," she replied whimsically. "I was on my way back from Sancre Tor and remembered your telling me to retrieve troops for Bruma at every opportunity, so off I went. It took about four days to close that one, and then the Countess' steward refused to grant me an audience with her because it was too late and she was sleeping, so I was forced to wait; I did, of course, consider breaking into her quarters and demanding an audience, but I suspected I would not receive much aid if I were to carry out that plan. Then, since I had to walk back on foot, I was ambushed by every single highwayman, bandit and Black Horse messenger that ever existed! Countess Valga is sending her men as we speak, but she could only promise two, though she plans to raise the numbers with members of the Fighters Guild before they leave. Did you send correspondences to the Guildmasters?"

The Breton frowned and folded his arms. "Who do you suggest I ought to have written to?" he asked, voice dripping with venom.

"Vilena Donton of the Fighters Guild, Hannibal Traven of the Mages Guild and, I suggest, Farwil Indarys of the Knights of the Thorn; they're awful at fighting, but I believe that they will be more than happy to 'atone for their actions' in the Cheydinhal Oblivion gate. The Blackwood Company have excess fighters, and the Count of Leyawiin has an Orc in his castle that he wishes to be rid of. There's a whole world of extra men and women who would be willing to help in this fight, and you've insisted on only recruiting soldiers! I mean, I'm sure you could even get some Arena brawlers to come to your aid; they're good fighters, used to killing, they just need something to fight for... Beware though, the Mythic Dawn are everywhere, in every guild. You'll have to check before recruiting fighters..."

Jauffre raised an eyebrow. "You presume to tell me how to do my duty? You, who knows nothing of honour, of responsibility, of loyalty?"

In barely the blink of an eye the Hero of Kvatch had crossed the entire courtyard and pressed her dagger into the neck of the Grandmaster, virtually the only part of his body not covered in armour. They could think what they wanted of her methods, or her allegiance, but the one thing she would never allow them to comment on was her loyalty. She was more loyal to their cause than they would ever know. "Oh, _I_ know nothing of loyalty?" she spat, digging her knife in just enough to draw blood for effect, but not enough to cause any lasting damage. "Says the man who was sitting in a _monastry_ when the Emperor he was sworn to protect was hacked down by assassins. The man who knew the location of the Emperor's heir _all these years_ and did _nothing_, not even when he knew that Kvatch was burning." She paused when she noticed in her peripheral vision that Captain Steffan had drawn his own weapon and was walking forwards calmly, something which she wholely expected the other Blades to copy before too long. "We shall have mutual need of each other for the time being, so I will let you live, but it is not wise to question my morals, _Breton_, or you will not live long enough to regret your words." She removed her blade from his neck and sheathed it in a single fluid movement, before turning on her heels and walking pointedly into the barracks, leaving Blades to only blink in disbelief and run to the aid of their Grandmaster.

Perhaps the less time she spent in Cloud Ruler the better.

xxx

The trip to Skingrad had taken longer than they'd expected, especially since they'd been forced to go via the chapel in Cheydinhal only to discover the place in disarray following the theft of the bust of Lady Llethasa Indarys, the Count's late wife. After that, Turner had been more than surprised to find his horse still alive but angry and spooked after being left alone tied to a tree for so very long in the presence of a spent Oblivion gate. They had, however, had the good fortune to find no less than three of the four shoots of the Bloodgrass that they needed for the potion. Seanturco had suggested they search the ruins of the Oblivion gate in Skingrad when they arrived there.

They entered the city together, which was unusual for them, especially as Count Hassildor had forbidden Seanturco to stay in Skingrad for risk of blowing his own cover as a vampire. The Altmer carried on through the centre of the city and out the West Gate, he had not fed for about three days and his symptoms were beginning to show more clearly than they usually did, while Turner walked into the city proper alone, cringing as every step put pressure on his newly healed ribs. Ohtesse had always maintained that, while she could still heal the wounds, she was not a miracle worker and therefore could not send all the pain away with a snap of her fingers. She had shaken her head and announced in an apologetic voice that she doubted the pain in the young Argonian's intercostal muscles would subside for anything up to a year before asking again just how he had received his injuries.

He lied.

The northern half of Skingrad was the 'posh' half and housed all the people who considered themselves rich along with many of the merchants, while the southern half was for the slightly less well-to-do, though mostly the people who worked in the fields of the West Weald and in particular in the vinyards of the renowned Surilie Brothers and Tamika of the eponymous wines that were so famous throughout Cyrodiil.

Turner headed northwards, following the road around the city until he reached a small shop with a sign swinging outside it that was written in the old daedric alphabet and in Cyrodilic reading _All Things Alchemical_. Only the Dunmer and the daedra themselves insisted upon continuing to use the daedric alphabet for their signs and more important documents; the daedra probably used it for everything besides, but that wasn't something that the Argonian assassin wished to dwell upon.

The owner of All Things Alchemical was a female Dunmer wearing a burgundy and black outfit trimmed with golden thread woven into intricate patterns across the bodice and skirt that reached the floor. Her skin was a light green colour and her hair was shoulder length and almost orange in colour, her eyes the burning red that was always seen in the Dark Elves.

"Hello!" she said enthusiastically, enough to make the Argonian recoil slightly in shock. "Do you need anything?"

Turner took a moment to recompose himself before clearing his throat instinctively, sending a wave of pain through his battered torso. He ignored it as best as he could, but he was fairly sure that the Dunmer would have noticed his wince. "I need... garlic and nightshade leaves," he said slowly, looking at the ingredients that were splayed across the counter in no particular order. He didn't see any garlic, and nothing he thought resembled nightshade leaves, but his knowledge of alchemy was fairly limited so he wasn't about to swear by any of his observations.

The woman smiled warmly. "How much then?" she asked, looking at the shelves on the opposite side of her counter to see if she had what he was looking for.

"Twelve cloves of garlic and ten nightshade leaves," the Argonian replied sheepishly, aware of how odd he must look trying to purchase that many in one go.

She nodded and ducked beneath her counter in order to gather the ingredients up. "I'm Falanu by the way," she said from underneath. "House Hlaalu, though that doesn't matter here in Cyrodiil."

"Shoots-An-Arrow," he lied in reply, leaning as languidly as he could on a cupboard leaning against a wall.

Falanu reappeared suddenly with a handful of leaves and a few cloves of garlic. "That's a large order," she smiled. "Are you an alchemist?"

Turner shook his head and removed himself from the cupboard, crossing the room and rummaging in the many pockets of his armour to find money to pay for the ingredients. "It's for an acquaintance of mine," he explained, the truth sounding horrifically vague as it left his lips. "I don't know why she requires so much, but I'm sure it will be put to good use." He threw the payment across the counter and picked up the ingredients, tucking them safely into a pocket and turning to leave.

"Wait," Falanu said suddenly, surprising the Argonian still further. "You wouldn't happen to know what the fine for necrophilia is in Cyrodiil, would you?"

The assassin froze to consider this strange, unwelcome question. "No," he replied pointedly, unable to hide the disgust at the practice from his voice. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," she said hurriedly, as if avoiding the question. "I was just wondering. Have a good day."

"And you," Turner muttered as he walked through the door, making a mental note to never, _ever_ return to that shop again. Necrophilia wasn't just horribly wrong, it was _disgusting_; he'd known something was odd about that woman as soon as he'd walked through the door.

Then, mental note made, he walked as quickly as he could manage out of the west gate of the city to reconvene outside the city walls with his vampiric friend. If all went to plan, they would be back in Skingrad before too long anyway.

xxx

It was barely dawn when Idari Mortha rose from the bedroll on the worn wooden floor in the West Wing of Cloud Ruler Temple. She strapped her weapons into their usual places soundlessly before making her way out into one of the bitter cold mornings that came with staying so high in the Jerall Mountains at this time of year. She ignored the weather, it couldn't do her any real damage and she imagined she was more than capable of getting herself out of any harmful situation with ease.

Only a handful of the Blades were awake at this hour, guarding the perimeter and keeping a lookout in case of an ambush. She also noticed, to her utmost distaste, that Jauffre was walking about the ramparts as well with the small _scratch_ she'd given him fully healed using Restoration magic. He saw her almost instantly and frowned deeply, moving to stand outside the stables when she ventured inside the retrieve Shadowmere.

"Off to assassinate some helpless soul?" he asked, voice dripping with contempt.

Idari shrugged and raised an eyebrow invisibly beneath her black hood. "Yes, I am going to assassinate somebody," she stated in a matter-of-fact way. "However, I doubt they will be helpless and indeed I do not know _who_ I am going to kill, and I _won't_ know until I leave here, so don't get any ideas about scuppering my career in some petty attempt at revenge."

"_Revenge_?" Jauffre repeated, disbelieving. "For now, ashlander, I have need of your assistance. Revenge will have to wait until this is over... Though, probably to your intense enjoyment, I doubt I will live to see the end of this crisis. I am not as young as I was..."

She had already prepared her sarcastic reply when one of the Blades came running up and tapped the Grandmaster on the shoulder. "Sir, there's someone walking up the path from Bruma. They don't look hostile, but they're armed and we were wondering what course of action to follow at this point."

A shadow of confusion crossed the Breton's face before he walked as quickly as he could manage with some decoram to the top of the watch tower to look at the strange newcomer. They were female and either a very short Breton or a Bosmer; it was hard to tell at this distance.

Idari let go of her horse's reins and followed the Blades up onto the ramparts. Looking out the intruder was obvious beyond comparison against the snow and the Dunmer finally saw the benefits of placing this fort in such an obscure, defendable location.

The stranger walked right up to the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple keeping her face turned to the ground so she could not be identified, though her hair was obviously a vibrant ginger colour. She muttered something and suddenly the otherwise magic resistant gates of Cloud Ruler swung open outwards as if they had been opened by the Blades and she strolled inside, apparently oblivious to the fifteen or so Blades and one Dunmeri assassin drawing weapons as she did so.

Idari dropped from the ramparts to land behind her on the stone stairs as the gates shut firmly behind her and the stranger turned to face her, looking up at the walkway above which was filled with numerous Blades wearing expressions that were an entire spectrum of shock mixed with anger.

She was a Breton, though short for her race, and her bright ginger hair was shoulder length and frizzy. She wore an odd assortment of leather boots that looked about three sizes too large for her feet and tight black leather trousers that were definitely too long and bunched up at the waist, on her top half she wore a strange amber coloured cuirass like nothing that was ever seen in Cyrodiil and a cloak that looked as if it had been fashioned into a long coat that reached her knees and was made of a green felt-like material. On her hip was a double bladed sword with an orange stone set into the golden hilt. Her eyes, however, were her strangest feature, as one was a light purple colour while the other was bright blue and had a fully dilated pupil that was tinged slightly silvery around the very edges. Both eyes were surrounded by a thick line of black makeup that she had obviously drawn herself, along with a daedric symbol to the left of her purple eye in silver paint which Idari automatically recognised as the letter 'D' while to the right of her blue eye an 'M' was painted in gold. Slight lines were beginning to appear on her face betraying that she was roughly middle-aged, but other than that her age was a complete mystery.

"Who are you?" the Grandmaster growled, dai-katana resting equally between his two hands. "And what is your business here?"

The woman looked up at him and smiled a peculiar half-smile. "You stand around here and you ask me my name? It seems that I could be asking the same," she said, speaking in rhymes. Her voice wasn't one of somebody sane, but not of complete madness either, as if she were teetering on the brink of sanity and insanity. "But I know who you are, and I know I am right, for I've been walking here for two days and two nights. As for my business, I've come to your aid, to fulfil a simple request that you just never made..."

"Your name Breton, and no rhymes," Jauffre said in exasperation. "And what is it that qualifies you to fight in our battles?"

She smiled again, and her blue eye seemed to twinkle in the light of the dawn. "Your presumption I'm a Breton is not entirely true, I am indeed a Breton, but half Imperial too. As for my name, there are no words that rhyme with Eugenie Corinth a lot of the time." She bowed low, almost sweeping the ground with her arm before straightening suddenly, her orange hair flicking over her shoulders, before drawing her double bladed sword and holding it aloft. "I found this blade while restoring Xedillian, it serves me well when I rule over civilians..." Then she laughed madly, doubling over completely. "The Duchess of Mania at your service, gentlemen," she said, dropping the rhymes momentarily. She sounded sane now, if only sligtly. "Humble servant of my Lord Sheogorath, and now sent to Nirn to aid you in your battle against Lord Dagon. My master said his Brother was always one for picking fights, but I must return before the Greymarch, that is essential. The Fringe is crumbling, Jyggalag marches, the Mazken and Aureals fight among themselves and Syl crosses to Order. The Gatekeeper must be rebuilt. Other Brothers, the Daedric Lords, do not have mortals in their plains, so I alone can join this fight... And I will battle with all my might."

There was a strange silence that swept over Cloud Ruler for a moment, then the Hero spoke: "A messenger from a Daedric Lord? A little far from the shrine now, aren't you? Sheogorath's worshippers are barely capable of speech, let alone fighting in a battle such as this."

Eugenie's voice was low and verging on silent when she spoke again, taking two steps towards the Dunmer. "Idari Mortha," she said softly, while the other Blades above strained to hear her words to no avail. "House Telvanni. Sadrith Mora. Two brothers, one dead, one dead-but-living. Mother little more than a slave. Father, a man my Lord has been waiting for for many years, filled with Madness, bound for Mania, bound for Bliss. My Lord told me to expect to meet you here; he makes perfect sense to those who understand his Madness." She watched as the Dark Elf's hand tightened around the hilt of her shortsword and she scowled in anger. This time the Breton's voice was louder: "You need not fear me or my words. I would not defy you, that would be totally absurd."

Jauffre nodded and sheaved his dai-katana over his shoulder. "You may return to your Lord for now," he spoke slowly. "Be in Bruma in a month and our goal will be closer. Do not anger your Lord, that would be foolish."

She laughed lightly and sheathed her double bladed sword as well before disappearing in a spark of magic like nothing anybody present had ever seen before.

"You should leave too, Hero, for your deadline is closer," Jauffre spoke as the first flakes of snow began to flit through the sky to the ground. "Having Madness on our side has never felt more useful..."

xxx

The Sun was beginning to cause some mild discomfort to the Altmeri vampire by the time they reached Drakelowe again and the pair slipped inside with a gentle knock.

"The _vampire_ and his _friend_ return," Melisande said in a mocking tone. "I do tire of vampires and lycans flocking to my door. Do you have the ingredients?"

"We do," the Argonian replied, searching his pockets for the nightshade leaves and the garlic as his companion lay a small vial of ashes on the table next the shoots of Bloodgrass that the pair had gathered from the remains of Oblivion gates rather than the plains of Oblivion themselves.

"And the blood of an Argonian?" the Breton witch asked, her eyebrow arched.

Turner nodded solemnly and pulled the enchanted dagger from his pocket. "Can you cope?" he addressed to his friend.

Seanturco considered this for a moment and then nodded. "Do it quickly, and I'll heal you. In fact, I'll just look away for now. Tell me when you need magic."

The Argonian waited a second and then drew the blade of the dagger across his palm, closing his eyes as his blood spewed from his hand and coated the knife. The smell was unmistakable as blood and he saw his friend's knuckles clenched in the corner of his eyes when he reopened them. He dropped the knife on the table and clenched his fist tightly in a feeble attempt to stem the flow of the blood; the pain was not bad, not when he had experienced the pain of being bitten by a vampire such a short time before, but he imagined it would have been a painful injury, if it had happened before. The mage healed him quickly.

The witch inspected the ingredients with a scrutinising eye and then laced her fingers together languidly. "Return in twenty-four hours," she stated suddenly. "I will have your cure then."

"What? No!" the High Elf protested anxiously. "I can't go outside, I'll burn!"

"I'm afraid that is not my problem, vampire. Your kind are not welcome in my home. I'm sure you can find a cave somewhere to skulk in."

"At least let us stay until dark..." he pleaded, clutching at ever shortening straws. "Please..."

Melisande shook her head firmly. "I cannot work on this cure unless you leave. Whether you die because you leave or you die after you return is of no concern of mine. Why don't you do disembowel some defenseless creature for your supper? That would satisfy your hunger... and if that doesn't work, this Argonian would make a fine blood donor... or are his kind_ below_ yours?"

"Let's go," Turner interjected before enough time had passed for the vampire to get _very_ angry with the witch and possibly jeopardise his chances of returning to normal. "We'll find somewhere to go and we'll be back here in a day's time." Then he took hold of his friend's arm and all but dragged him through the door into the sunlight, where he started to smoke gently.

"That witch..." Seanturco began through gritted teeth, ignoring the smell of his burning flesh as it rose into his nostrils at an alarming rate. "Has some nerve to treat me like that. She's a _Breton_ for pity's sake! _Breton trash_. She can't treat me like some dirt under her shoe... I am no lower than her, even as a vampire!"

The Argonian continued to drag him through the woods until they reached a small cave which they slipped inside. "You're really beginning to sound like an Altmeri version of the Hero of Kvatch, you know that?" he pointed out. "I know you're a High Elf and all, but you could at least try and _not_ let it show. You've waited this long to be changed back, what difference does an extra day make? You're going back to the University after this, aren't you? After we've gone to Skingrad with that witch?"

"I've got to... The guild need me to help with the necromancers. Where are you going?" the vampire sighed deeply, accepting the assassin's words internally.

"Cloud Ruler Temple. I'll deliver the cure and then I'll go where I'm needed. I'm not a good assassin, I'm not a good mage, and I'm not a good fighter or thief, but I can follow orders, so I'll find somewhere to go... The future looks somewhat... hazy from here..."

Seanturco shrugged. "I imagine the Hero of Kvatch will allow you to stay. There has a be some reason that she hasn't attempted to kill you yet... Something in your past?"

Turner did a double take. "My past? Why would anything in my past be to do with her? She doesn't even know my past! Nobody knows my past, and definitely nobody in Cyrodiil!"

"I thought you grew up in Cyrodiil?"

"No, no I didn't, I grew up in..." he stopped and frowned. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Trust me, my friend, your past cannot be as bad as you make it out to be. You're alive, aren't you?"

"It's..." A pause. "Painful."

"It's useful to talk about it..."

The Argonian laughed. "That's a terrible excuse for you being nosey," he said. Another pause. "I was born on Vvardenfell; I don't know who my parents were, but I was in the Argonian mission in Ebonheart. I was supposed to be taken to Black Marsh, but the Argonian accompanying me caught Blight disease and died. I grew up in Morrowind, in a village near Tear, in the care of a Nord woman who barely acknowledged my existence. She didn't name me until I was about ten, because when she was drunk I wouldn't stop 'turning'; I had a Black Marsh name when I lived in Ebonheart, but it died with my guide, I forgot it and the Nord woman wouldn't have been able to pronounce it even if she'd known about it... Idiotic woman. I was so close to Black Marsh, but I never crossed the border, since some sailor took me onto his ship as a mascot... Look, I'm really not comfortable about this... I like having my secrets, having my past to myself." He sighed. "I'm sorry, I can't tell you any more. I don't want to relive it. It's been nine years but... I really don't want to talk about it." He sunk to the floor and took a look around the cave. It appeared empty but he wasn't about to go checking in case that turned out not to be the case. He was not the one who would end up stranded.

Nothing passed between them for what seemed like hours until Seanturco finally spoke: "If we're to be here for twenty-four hours you might as well sleep or go back to Cheydinhal. There's not much else to do here."

"I'm staying." The reply was almost immediately and definite beyond any shadow of a doubt. "You stayed and saved my life. I can't even begin to repay you for that. Twenty-four hours of my time are not really that important..."

xxx

Why did dead drops have to be in such obscure locations? The ones in the cities worked just as well as the ones in strange places that nobody ever visited like Fort Redman.

Idari was in a foul mood by the time she reached the location of her next dead drop. She had ridden from Bruma and Fort Redman was located between Bruma and Leyawiin in the middle of Blackwood.

Shadowmere didn't mind. He never did. He would run and run and run and never even show a sign of fatigue.

She had chosen to follow the Yellow Road, since using the Green Road would have involved skirting around Bravil, and she had had quite enough of that city for now. It turned out she was in luck, however, since Fort Redman was located on the east bank of the Niben and Shadowmere seemed to be able to find it simply enough on his own.

The Dark Elf double checked the contract she had received for Shaleez before she stepped into the ruin. The next contract was supposedly inside a coffin, just outside the ruins of Fort Redman, which was a horrible sign that there were likely to be some vampires inside it.

She walked inside, weapons sheathed but on her guard and took the lid off the nearest coffin suspiciously. It contained a bag of coins and two sheets of paper, all of which she removed and scanned the contents of paper quickly.

Her next target was a Dark Elf by the name of Alval Uvani, who's wife had taken out a contract on him to end their marriage as he spent such extended times away from Morrowind. The other piece of paper contained his schedule. It seemed he travelled from town to town selling his wares, staying in inns or his rented home in Leyawiin, and he also had a rare allergy to honey which rendered him paralysed when he came into contact with it.

Idari sighed and shoved the two pieces of paper and her payment into her pocket. Uvani was a powerful mage and skilled in destruction, so he would not be easy to take out on any account, and that was _after_ she had managed to track him down. She didn't doubt her own abilities, she knew enough destruction magic of her own, but she was feeling conflicted about her role in all this now; how in the world could she be an infamous assassin and a hero at the same time? It wasn't natural, it wasn't _right_.

She left Fort Redman silently and mounted Shadowmere smoothly, riding southwards to Leyawiin, the best place to start her search and still plagued by an Oblivion gate to the best of her knowledge. She prayed internally that some other hero would arise from the people and take over her role, but she was so far embroiled in this whole affair now that they'd still turn to her, even if someone better turned up for the job. She couldn't just stop being an assassin either; it was all she knew, all she was. She'd been an assassin so long that it was virtually all she remembered, that and House Telvanni snobbery.

It was in her opinion to never regret anything, not deaths she caused or decisions she made or lives she saved. That was the strangest thing, the life saving. She was so used to life taking that life saving was almost alien, but she did it anyway, ever since Bruma, since Baenlin, since that _blasted_ Argonian.

She also had a horrible feeling that this life saving expedition of hers would not end well. It was impossible to take on a Daedric Lord and suffer no losses. Hopefully the losses they took were not as severe as she expected they would be.

xxx

The pair let darkness fall twice before they left the cave again and headed slowly back to Drakelowe. The air of stifled excitement and anticipation was obvious in the atmosphere between them, though neither spoke as they walked.

Turner led into the house and the vampire followed him closely, red eyes scanning the room for any signs of the witch. She was standing next to her fireplace, small vials of a clear liquid sat on the mantlepiece and she appeared to be chanting some kind of incantation.

"You will accompany me to Skingrad," she said suddenly, amidst the air of intrigue she was giving off. It wasn't a question, though it sounded almost rhetorical. "The Count's hopes are false, verging on idiotic, but his love for his wife is admirable. She has not fed in so long that I doubt she will have the strength to survive the transformation. Argonian, your reasons for wanting this cure has baffled me, but your intentions seem noble..." She handed two of the bottles to the assassin before turning to the mage. "You however, vampire, I can figure out. This is for your own personal gain. I may ask you one more time though, are you completely sure of your wish to return to the world of the living? There is no turning back from this point."

"There is no question," Seanturco replied firmly. "I have no wish to remain as a vampire. It has been a truly _horrific _experience."

"Very well then," Melisande conceded, handing him one vial and tucking the other into the one pocket of the brown skirt she was wearing. "This one is bound for Rona Hassildor. That was part of the deal with my curing you, was it not?"

The Altmer wasn't listening. He snatched up the potion from the Breton's fingers and removed the stopper eagerly, downing the contents without even a second thought for what might be inside.

The witch chuckled. "Catch him," she said, as he collapsed under his own weight. Turner grabbed him just in time, but he still hit the floor with rather more force than he ought to have done. "He'll be unconscious for about an hour, if my previous subjects are anything to go by. Do you have a horse? We may as well begin the journey to Skingrad now."

"What about him?" Turner asked hesitantly, gesturing to his friend.

"That is not the difficult part of this plan, Argonian." She muttered some words in the Ayleid language and Seanturco's form lifted from the ground at her bidding, then she crossed the the door and stepped outside, floating body following her closely.

"Can you keep that up all the way to Skingrad?" he asked her, sounding slightly concerned.

Melisande just smiled at him. "He will wake long before we reach the city. It would look rather shifty if we walked into Skingrad with the unconscious corpse of a vampire now, wouldn't it?" She walked up to Turner's horse and said something unintelligible to it before climbing on. "I notice you have been bitten by a vampire since the first time we met. I trust that will not affect your ability to use that sword of yours, should we run into any troubles along the way."

Turner's hand moved instinctively to the wound on his neck, wondering if it were truly that obvious. "I sure hope not." He looked at his friend floating silently and found himself missing the company of the vampire all of a sudden. He doubted they would meet again after this journey, but hopefully it would be for the best.

The witch's estimations were correct. After about an hour Seanturco began tossing in the grasp of the spell but did not yet awaken fully.

"Ten more minutes then," the Breton said simply, her accent curling around the words smoothly. "It will get worse. When one becomes a vampire it happens gradually, in their sleep, but when one changes back? It is not a simple matter, and it is not without suffering, but he will be as he was before... though perhaps a little wiser. However you, I trust, did not meet him until after he met with this affliction. It takes a certain sort of person to befriend a vampire. Ignore his turning, ignore any squeak of pain; block it from your mind and concentrate on something else. You know the pain of being bitten by a vampire? He knows it too, and this is on a par with it."

The Argonian was unsure who had the worse deal here. It pained him greatly to watch his friend suffer like this; having experienced the pain of vampire venom himself it was something he could relate to, something he could still feel in his bloodstream on occasion, but it was always worse watching others in pain than it was to feel it oneself. That was Turner's opinion anyway.

After precisely eight minutes the mage groaned and struggled to force himself upright, at which point Melisande allowed the magic holding him to dissipate and he dropped unceremoniously to the ground below. He sat up, clutching his head, eyes tightly closed, but he looked _alive_ like Turner had never seen him before.

The assassin knelt beside him and laid a hand on his arm. "Are you okay?" he asked, knowing that the answer was almost definitely a resounding 'no'.

Seanturco shook his head and forced his eyes to open. They were light blue now, and all trace of redness had disappeared. He ran his tongue over his teeth and was pleased to find that his fangs had vanished too. "Glad to be back though," he choked out, his voice silky and cultured without the hiss that had been plaguing it for months. He staggered to his feet. "We're going to Skingrad?"

Turner nodded. "We'll be on the Gold Road before long. We didn't want to waste time waiting for you to come around so we started off."

"It is good to be able to stand in the sun without fearing for my life..." the High Elf muttered, gazing up at the sky. He reached up and pushed his hood back off his face, revealing short brown hair and golden skin along with the pointed ears that were always seen on mer. He looked around and then grinned. "I can eat real food again, can't I? Oh, this is simply marvellous!"

The witch cleared her throat. "I believe we should get going," she stated, spurring Snowdrop on. "Though the Count himself has no need of sleep, I doubt his court will be happy to receive arrivals after nightfall, however few of them there are."

They reached the city just before dusk began to sweep across the land like a tidalwave. They made a strange group, an Altmeri mage in an apprentice's robe, a small Breton woman in a brown shirt and skirt with a strange aura about her and an Argonian wearing black leather and carrying a bow over his shoulder and a daedric sword on his belt. They made their way through the city swiftly and over the long bridge to the castle.

Their presence in the Castle Hall was noted immediately by his Argonian steward and she crossed to them. "What is your business in Castle Skingrad?"

Melisande smiled wryly. "We bring a cure for vampirism to Janus Hassildor."

A wave of shock crossed the Argonian's features. "Oh..." she said in confusion. "Well then, you should follow me..."

Seanturco nodded. He had been to this room before, he had seen the count with his wife. The count spent much of his spare time at his wife's bedside, willing her to get better, praying she would survive or wake or even at least give him some sign.

It was a simple room with crimson fittings, and Rona Hassildor lay on the bed in a red dress that looked almost new, as if servants had changed it for her recently. The count sat on a chair at her bedside, holding her hand sadly. When he sensed their presence he looked up sharply, standing with a surprised expression on his face. "Who are you?" he asked, glaring at the witch and then at his steward.

In reply, Melisande reached into her pocket and withdrew the small vial of cure before crossing the room and pressing it into the count's palm. "Do not raise your hopes, Janus," she said softly as his ghostly white fingers closed around the bottle and he gazed at it incredulously.

"Rona," he whispered, dropping to his knees beside her and uncorking the bottle. He poured its contents into her open mouth and waited, watching her intently.

"It will not work instantly," the witch said from across the room, and Hassildor made no sign as if he had heard.

Finally he replied: "I have waited decades for this moment. A few minutes more will mean nothing in comparison..."

Seanturco nudged Turner with an elbow. "How long was I out?" he whispered.

"Slightly more than an hour... I suppose we'll have to wait as well."

The count's gaze never faltered from his wife, not even once, not in the whole time it took for her to toss and turn and writhe in pain before finally her breathing evened out. He had wasted years watching her like this, watching her suffer, and the pain on his face was almost unimaginable. Rona opened her eyes slowly and smiled, only smiled, before she died. Hassildor's head lowered and Hal-Liurz turned to the trio.

"I think you should leave now," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Let the count grieve his loss alone."

And so they left. The few people who would ever know about the death of Rona Hassildor and the circumstances behind it. Who would mourn her? The citizens never spoke of her in the city, not anymore. Now it would be as if she had just never existed.

* * *

_Author Note: So this chapter is the longest one so far. I haven't read through it, but I will, in time, so if I've missed anything... Lemme know._

_Possibly the most important chapter to date. Why is it that my two longest chapters so far have centred around Janus Hassildor and the vampire cure quest? Weird._

_OK, so I've never completed this quest... Go easy with the crappy content of it. Also, what did y'all think of Eugenie? She's weird, but she's been in my mind for a while now, along with somebody else who's turning up next chapter..._

_Merry Happy New Year_

_~ARTY~_


	33. A Matter of Honour

_Random: Commentaholic got the 46th review and 146th review. How weird is that?_

_If anybody noticed me post a chapter of TEOTW (The End of the World) a couple of days ago (i.e. anybody who has me on author alert), you needn't worry. That 700 word chapter took me ten minutes to write. This one takes priority. Period._

_Note: No, this still has nothing to do with Blood and Steel..._

_

* * *

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Chapter 33

Melisande looked at the two mortals in her company and smiled. "Janus Hassildor will want to offer you a reward for saving his wife," she stated. "And I will return home."

"We didn't save her," Seanturco pointed out. "She..."

The witch cut him off with a wave of her hand. "The count sought peace for his wife. He knew in his heart that she would not survive the process. He wishes to thank you for your part. My part is done... I will take my leave."

The Argonian stopped her. "Do you wish us to accompany you back to your house?"

She shook her head. "I am more than capable of taking care of myself, Argonian. Your horse is in the stables. Farewell." She left them in the Castle Hall without a further word on the matter.

The pair looked about. They were alone in the large eerie room save for the two guards who seemed to be ever present in the doorway. Two small tables laden with fruit were on the opposite side and were probably there for visitors of the count when they were forced to wait for him. The assassin and the mage sat on the bottom step of the stairs while they waited for the count to emerge from his initial grieving period.

Eventually after what felt like hours Hal-Liurz walked down the stairs and beckoned them onto the top landing where the count stood awkwardly. Sadness was obvious across his features but he did not appear to have shed a tear; he had probably cried for Rona enough in the past.

"I cannot thank you enough for helping me free Rona from the terrible state she was in." His voice was low and full of forced dignity. "I can only hope she has found the peace that she sought. I would like to give you some kind of reward." He presented them with two small bags of coins. "Please accept these small sums of money. At least I can rest easier now, knowing my wife is no longer suffering. Leave me now, I have much to sort out."

They said nothing in reply. There was nothing to say. They just accepted the bags reluctantly and left silently, stuffing the money into various pockets and walking down into the city.

"You're going to have to buy a horse now..." Turner pointed out as they neared the gate, and Seanturco looked at him in shock.

"That's quite true," he admitted. "I hadn't thought of that... But..." He paused. "I killed that horse. I don't think..."

"All in the past. A lifetime ago. If I didn't go anywhere I had a bad memory from, I don't think I'd have anywhere to go, except Kvatch, but we both know that's not a good idea..."

The Altmer nodded with a heavy sigh. "OK. Turning over a new leaf. Let's not make the fact that I got my life back be for nothing."

xxx

Count Marius Caro looked down at the stranger from his throne incredulously. She claimed to have closed the Oblivion gate outside his walls, and reports indeed said that it had been closed, but she did not look capable of the feat.

She was a Dark Elf, small in stature and dressed in common clothing of a brown skirt and brown shirt. A black hood covered her face and the only weapon she appeared to be carrying was a small ebony dagger.

She asked for no reward, only that men by sent to Bruma in order to fight alongside the Bruma guard during the final battle with regards to a letter he had received from Jauffre. A reasonable request, and her knowledge of this matter was extensive, so he found himself inclined to believe her words.

"With the recent death of my Guard Captain, Caelia Draconis, my men are a little stretched, but I will send you what I can," he promised her. Even if she was not a member of the Blades, his men would go to Bruma to help defend, that was what he had promised Jauffre in his letter.

The Dunmer nodded and left then without a further word. The count hadn't really expected her to stay if she truly was the same Hero of Kvatch that the Grandmaster had mentioned in his letters, and he didn't really wish for her to stay either, especially since he had his hands full with the theft of his wife's ring only the night beforehand. Matters of state were important as well, so he sat in his throne as he always did, but that did not stop the niggling worry in the back of his mind that perhaps his castle was not quite as secure as he took it to be...

xxx

The Imperial City loomed ahead of them as they rode. It brought back memories for one of them, memories of murder and magic and _home_. How could he make himself at home in a place where he had murdered for his own gain? He would manage it somehow. He would just have to keep himself busy.

They stopped at the Chestnut Handy Stables and Seanturco dismounted his Bay Horse awkwardly.

"You don't have to leave right away..." he said, fishing for an excuse not to have to walk through the city alone again.

Turner shook his head firmly. "I need to go to Cloud Ruler Temple as soon as possible. Who knows what trouble the Hero of Kvatch has caused for them up there? She can't cope with being told what to do, or with being wrong. It will probably be for the best if we don't meet again, but I hope that is not the case, so long as I don't receive a contract on your head... I hope to see you again some day, my friend. So long." He turned his horse and spurred her to run.

"If I'm in the area, I'll pay you a visit," Seanturco called after him, chuckling as he led his newly acquired horse into the paddock before strolling through the city to the Arcane University as quickly as he could manage.

The Tower Lobby was almost empty today, save for the usual presence of Raminus Polus reading some book on magic. The Altmer cleared his throat when Polus did not look up.

A smile spread across the Master-Wizard's face. "I am glad to see you are back and well," he said smoothly, closing the book and standing instinctively. "Your presence has been missed."

"Is there anything you would have me do?"

"Ever loyal," the Imperial laughed. "Arch Mage Traven has a task for you, but first there is something else we must address. Following your predicament and the deaths of two new recruits, the Council of Mages have decided to see that our members are better protected, so you have been paired with a Battlemage to see that you are not endangered any further..."

"I'm sorry?" Seanturco said, confused. "A Battlemage? Which Battlemage?" He was in no mood to be forced into a partnership by the powers that be, but he didn't suppose he had much choice.

Polus nodded and led the Warlock outside to the Imperial Watchtower. "She excelled in the Battlemage training," he stated with a smile. "But some people say she is... difficult. I expect it is probably just a rumour."

"Yes, but who _is_ she?"

Raminus had a brief conversation with the Battlemage who came to the door before turning and leading the Altmer back up the stairs and through the gates to the front entrance of the University. Two Battlemages guarded the door, a male Redguard and a female Orc. Seanturco's heart sank in his chest and his genetic snobbery flared again; he knew which one was to be his partner, his partner was female, but an _Orc_? What was Polus thinking?

"This is Rush gra-Yazgash," Polus was saying by way of introduction. The Altmer looked at her distainfully. She was almost the same height as him, but twice as muscular, and she wore the armour of the Imperial Legion along with a blue enchanted hood, and a massive enchanted Dwarven Claymore was strapped across her back, though the weight didn't seem to affect her in any way.

The Imperial was still speaking. "Well, I shall leave you two to get better acquainted, and when you're ready be sure to approach Arch Mage Traven for a task..." Then he left, returning to the Tower Lobby.

Rush snorted. "A _High_ Elf then?" she asked nobody in particular, laughing to herself. "I guess it's my job to protect you, goldenrod. You're the one who got bitten by a vampire, aren't you?"

Seanturco's eyes narrowed. "What happened to me is of no concern to you, Orc. I am going to speak with Traven. Be ready to leave when I return."

"Of course, your _high-and-mighty-ness_," she mocked, faking a bow before laughing again. "I've been ready to leave since they introduced this stupid new policy. Waiting for you to decide to come back."

He ignored her and returned to the Tower Lobby with a scowl on his face. "You put me with an _Orc_?" he asked Raminus with a shocked tone. "What in the world were you _thinking_?"

Polus smiled. "Traven is upstairs," he said simply, returning to his book as if nothing had happened.

The Altmer stomped over the the teleportation disk and activated it using arcane words to find himself in the Council Chambers. Irlav Jarol and Caranya stood to one side having a rather heated conversation about something while Hannibal Traven sat at the large round table and looked to be writing something. Neither Irlav or Caranya took much notice of the newcomer further than glancing to see who it was, but Traven lay down his quill and stood, a queer expression on his face somewhere between a smile and a sigh.

"Is there anything you need me to do, Arch Mage?" Seanturco asked across the room, not moving from the teleportation disk.

"Yes," Traven replied. "Though are you sure you want to head off so soon. I gather you have only recently returned."

"I plan to keep busy. Where do you want me to go?"

"We have not heard from Jeanne Frasoric in quite some time. This is worrying, for while I appreciate freedom from her constant harrassment, it is not like her...I want you to go and see what is up, or at least see why we have heard nothing from her. It is probably nothing but a misunderstanding or a mix-up by the couriers, but it is important that we hear from her soon."

"Jeanne Frasoric in Bruma?" he asked, perking up slightly. Cloud Ruler Temple was near Bruma, so perhaps he would get a slight respite from his Orcish bodyguard after this trivial matter was solved.

The Breton nodded. "And report back on your findings."

Magical words flowed from the Altmer's tongue and he immediately found himself in the Tower Lobby once more. Raminus, it seemed, probably had one of the most tedious jobs of all the mages in the University as he had finished his book and was wandering aimlessly about the room. Seanturco had already reached the door before the Imperial spoke to him once more, startling him slightly. "If you are being sent to speak with Jeanne, I suggest wearing a robe that befits your rank or she will treat you as nothing more than an Apprentice."

He was about to ask just what Raminus was speaking about until he realised that he was indeed still wearing his green Apprentice robes and his eyes travelled involuntarily to the spot which had once been stained with Calindil's innocent blood. He winced at the memory and made a mental note to burn the robe when he returned and simply claim he had misplaced it if anyone asked.

He couldn't turn over a new leaf walking about covered in the blood of someone he had murdered.

He was surprised the Dark Brotherhood hadn't come for him yet.

xxx

Turner reached Cloud Ruler Temple more quickly than he had expected himself too, probably because last time he had been riding a paint horse that was almost definitely on its last legs and could easily have been toppled by a strong gust of wind. This was his first time travelling to the fort alone and he wondered just how the Blades would react to him simply turning up, but he suspected that Idari had probably caused such a fuss over finding her brother that they would be happy to take the potions as respite from her.

He had stood up to her and lived, a feat which still seemed to perplex him even now, but others didn't really stand a chance

He avoided the city like the plague, skirting around Bruma as if his life depended on it, and rode up the hill to Cloud Ruler slowly, aware that the winter snows had left the road icy. It would be just his luck to slip off a cliff.

The Blades probably spotted and recognised him a mile away, because they were ready to open the gates almost as soon as he approached them.

Jauffre stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded and mildly confused look written in his features. "The Hero is not here, Argonian," he stated professionally, and Turner could tell instantly that something had happened between him and Idari since they had last met.

The Argonian reached into his pocket and pulled out the two small vials of vampire cure. "She told me to deliver the cure for vampirism here," he explained slowly, aware that a few more pairs of eyes and ears were training in on their conversation now.

"You'll want to speak with Baurus then. He should be in the Great Hall with Martin."

Turner took Jauffre's single step to the side as an indication that he ought to be moving towards the Great Hall, despite the fact that he had never spoken with Baurus and had only seen him once for a brief period.

The room was larger than he remembered, and katanas lined the eaves with small plaques of dedication to their lost owners. In fact, Turner was rather surprised that he hadn't noticed them before, since he generally considered himself to be rather observant. Obviously he had been wrong.

Martin was sitting at a table to the far end of the room; Turner had always thought he spent much of his time in his quarters, but it seemed he had moved for a change of scenery... or to prevent arguments between the Blades and a certain Hero... He had books piled around him, at least one pile threatening to descend to the floor at any moment, and a candle sat perched near the edge of the table in what appeared to be the only position in which it could offer a substantial amount of light without setting fire to all the works of literature around it. The Redguard he remembered as Baurus sat at another table eating what looked like a plate of bread and cheese while watching the Heir's movements closely, and a table closer to the door contained four Blades who appeared to be whispering to each other frantically at the sight of the Argonian visitor. He paid them no heed and crossed to the Redguard.

"Baurus?" he asked uncertainly, relieved when the Blade looked up from his meal and fixed him in warm brown eyes.

"You are Idari's friend?" the Redguard replied after swallowing the mouthful he had been chewing. Turner nodded. "Then you bring the potions she promised you would?"

"I do." The Argonian reached into his pockets and drew out the two bottles of cure, placing them gently on the table before he had a chance to break them. He already knew how terribly clumsy he could be at times, and this was rather too important an opportunity to muck up. "I understand it was you who offered to take them for her?"

Baurus nodded. "A small sacrifice. She was prepared to kill half of this fort to reach her brother. It's dedication, albeit foolish dedication, but it must be worth something if she'd willing to stake her life on it..."

"I don't doubt she could take you all out," Turner pointed out with a smirk. "Blindfolded. With _both_ hands tied behind her back. You shouldn't question her. Ever."

"Yes, I think we at Cloud Ruler found that out the hard way..." the Redguard smiled. "She held a knife to Jauffre's throat and as good as threatened to set her horse on us... Sometimes it's as if she feels nothing, as if she's more machine than mer, and other times her emotions rule her actions and fuel her temper. She is a difficult person to predict."

The assassin conceded his words with a nod. "I hope your expedition to Morrowind goes well," he said, changing the subject. "I will stay here until she returns, but then I must leave, I suppose. She has no uses for me anymore."

"I hope my expedition goes well too. I fear returning without her brother might cost me my head, though she hasn't given me his name, which will make my search almost impossible. How many Dunmeri vampires can possibly be living in Morrowind right now? Far too many."

"But you've seen her face before?" Turner asked rhetorically. Of course Baurus had seen her face before; he first saw her in prison and she almost definitely wasn't wearing a hood then. Baurus was probably among a minority of people to have ever seen her. "Surely there will be some family resemblance..."

"A name would be of more use..."

The Argonian sighed, accepting that the Blade was probably right. "Her brother's name is Reron Mortha," he said in a quiet voice, aware that the Blades at the other table had suddenly fallen silent too. "Don't ever tell her I told you that though... She'd skin me and turn me into a pair of boots!"

Baurus nodded and scooped up the two vials in a single movement, tucking them away into pockets concealed beneath his Blades armour, then he stood, the top of his head reaching Turner's eye level. "I shall leave immediately then," he announced, checking his sword in its scabbard on his left hip and looking around the Great Hall as if to drink in the sight for what might be the last time. "I won't take supplies except for gold. Carrying food or bedding will just weigh me down and slow my progress if I hope to be back before the Battle for Bruma... I could not call myself a Blade if I were to miss that."

"Good luck," Turner smiled. "Succeed and she'll love you forever. She loves her brother with all her heart and she'll be devastated if he's been killed..."

"Talos guide you," the Blade said finally, nodding once more, accepting the grim task that he was about to undertake. Then he turned back to Martin and saluted, bringing his fist to his heart with great dignity. "Farewell sire. For what it's worth, if I don't return, you will make an excellent Emperor. It is an honour to have served you, as it was your father before you..."

"Your words are too kind, Baurus," the Heir replied, candlelight dancing in his brilliant blue eyes. "And entirely unwarranted. It is an honour for me to count you among the numbers of my friends. May the Nine guide you and make your task easier. It shows bravery almost beyond compare, and loyalty above and beyond the call of duty. When you return I'll see you promoted on my authority - Jauffre wouldn't _dare_ to challenge that."

xxx

Idari Mortha stood in the centre of Leyawiin, uncomfortable in her civilian clothing but happy for the hood that concealed her face from the nosy onlookers who passed by, hoping to catch a glimpse, and pulled Alval Uvani's schedule from her pocket, unfolding it fully.

Apparently he wouldn't be back in Leyawiin until Sundas or thereabouts, and spent the rest of the time travelling Cyrodiil from inn to inn, selling his wares. By her estimation, Idari placed it at about Turdas, which put Uvani in Skingrad in the West Weald Inn, but he would be leaving and moving on to Bruma at the next opportunity. If she could reach Bruma before Loredas she could take him out there, which was also rather convenient for her return to Cloud Ruler Temple, as it happened. Shadowmere could reach that deadline easily, and at least in Bruma she could wear her shrouded armour without worrying about being caught.

She had been seen in Leyawiin twice, identified by guards as the assassin responsible for the deaths of both Adamus Phillida and Caelia Draconis, both high ranking people within the city, so she wasn't taking any chances there. Other than that she could generally pass her black leather off as an intricate form of armour without too much fuss... She hoped she would not be returning to Leyawiin too soon.

She left the city then, changing back into her Void armour before mounting her stallion and heading off back up the Yellow Road to Bruma, hideously unaware of the terrible mistake she was about to repeat for a third time.

How was she to know that her dead drops were being faked?

xxx

A certain ex-vampire-Altmer-mage was feeling even less impressed about his pairing with this Orcish Battlemage than he had been before. First of all he told her of their journey to Bruma having changed to a robe that befitted his actual rank and she claimed that she needed to buy a horse. The Chestnut Handy Stables, however, don't sell horses on account of the fact that their animals seem to go missing rather regularly. Rumour was the ostler eats them.

Eventually Rush had managed to persuade them to let her have an old nag for a reduced price; it was a truly pathetic creature, barely alive and somewhat inadequate for carrying an armoured Orc all the way to Bruma, but the Battlemage did not seem too bothered by this fact.

Conversation was sparse between them as they rode at an impossibly slow pace and Seanturco found himself missing his friend slightly. He would have even prefered being alone to being stuck with her, as much as he tried not to allow the haughtiness of his race to show.

A journey that could have taken a few hours took almost a day at the pace they set which was cripplingly slow, and Seanturco could have sworn he noticed the Hero of Kvatch ride past them as somewhat of a blur as they made their way along the Silver Road. She wouldn't have recognised him now even if it was her. A lot had changed since they had last met.

"What are your magical specialities?" the Orc asked him as Bruma began to loom ahead of them, her voice grating against his subconscious mind.

"Destruction and Conjuration," he replied tersely. "Besides, I am quite capable of checking in on a guild by myself. You had no need to accompany me."

Rush snorted with laughter, the grotesque sound making the Altmer cringe slightly, something she noticed instantly. "Well, with all these necromancers running around we can never be too careful..." she stated. "Besides, what would you do if you ran into something resistant to magic? You'd die, that's what. At best you could probably wield a dagger, and what good will that do? What would happen if you ran into Mannimarco?"

Seanturco raised a hand to silence her. "Forgive me, but I have a feeling that the rumours about Mannimarco are not true... and I doubt he would be aimlessly strolling around Cyrodiil even if he _was_ still alive. I don't see why the Council should doubt my abilities... I managed to clear Nenyond Twyll of necromancers perfectly well alone."

"And then you got bitten by a vampire..." Her comment made the Altmer scowl as they finally reached the stables at Bruma and dismounted their horses. He had to agree with her, that had probably been a point of concern for the Council, even if they knew he could survive an onslaught of necromancers in a small space.

They approached the guild as night began to fall around them, cloaking the city in darkness as the sun tucked itself away behind the Jerall Mountains as if to hide from the two moons that glowed above. The carpet of snow that usually coated the ground in Bruma was thinner than usual, but the pathway beneath was sodden and people who had taken the time to go outside without sturdy metal boots would regret their actions by the acquiring of wet feet. Much to his annoyance, Seanturco was included in this number of wet-feeted people, while Rush breezed through the area as if nothing were amiss, her steel Legion boots protecting her from the environment.

"Something's definitely wrong here..." Seanturco said as they approached the guild. The look on his face was virtually unreadable and the Battlemage stopped out of pure curiosity if nothing else. Both of them could feel the magicka radiating itself around the guildhall, and normally it would not be unusual, but this time it was stronger as if the entire building were being hidden within some shield of Illusion. "Why would you enchant a building...?"

"To hide your presence..." Rush reached over her shoulder and drew her claymore in one hand, leaving her other free to fling spells at her every whim. "If it's necromancers that place will be crawling with undead. I hope you can keep your nerve around them, considering you were one up until so very recently." She didn't leave him enough time to reply, or even really enough time to be offended, as she flung the heavily enchanted doors open and ran inside.

The inside of the guildhall was not disguised as the outside was, probably because their was now no danger of soldiers chancing upon it at the site of the building going up in flames. Everything was burning, flames clawing at the ceiling hungrily and snaking up the walls like vines; alchemical apparatus and books lay flung clear across the room from their original positions, and several bookcases had overturned, blocking the paths to other areas of the building as they burnt merrily.

Rush had dealt with the only threats in the room before Seanturco had had time to get his bearings and focus on a plan, a ghost melted into a pool of ectoplasm and a skeleton smashed into a million pieces as fireballs slammed into them with considerable force. The Altmer was first to notice Selena Orania lying half-hidden among her alchemy equipment as everything burnt around her, and a quick check revealed she was dead, apparently killed by some form of magic as there wasn't a mark on her and none of her blood had been spilt. He paused a moment in her memory, his serenity interupted as Rush began to prowl on for her next victim.

"We're not going down those stairs, goldenrod," she told him pointedly as she turned to face the offending bookshelf that was blocking her path. "If we're searching for survivors they won't be down there. It's just a small corridor and the necromancers have certainly done a number on this place. We'll go to Jeanne's office, but after that we're leaving to tell Traven what happened here..."

"What if there are necromancers down there?"

"So what? If they feel the need to reanimate corpses then that's their own problem. I don't see why Traven keeps sending us out to kill them." She sent a wave of energy barreling into the bookcase and watched with some satisfaction as it flew out of her path, crashing into the wall and destroying the stair railings surrounding the set of stairs that led to the basement, eventually coming to rest by blocking them entirely as it's weight pulled it downwards into the gap.

Seanturco watched her continue on through the newly opened archway incredulously. Mysticism was never a school of magic that he had found particularly useful, and the only spells he relied on from that school were Detect Life and Dispel, both of which he used rarely. The Telekinesis spell that she had used was definitely powerful; there weren't many Orcish mages, especially outside Orsinium, in fact the Altmer was fairly sure that he'd never met one before now, but if the rest of her spells were as powerful as that last one, and if she could use that sword as comfortably as she was holding it then she was definitely an ally worth having.

They ascended the stairs to the room that had belonged to Jeanne Frasoric together to find the door slightly ajar, but not enough to see who was inside. The female voice on the other side of the door was that of an Imperial, which alerted them to the necromancer's presence as they had already confirmed that the only Imperial from this guildhall was dead.

When the unlikely pair burst inside the necromancer looked up from the body of Jeanne Frasoric, her face a picture of confusion mixed with amusement. "I'm afraid you're rather late for the show..." she said to them, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Neither of you will be leaving now. I'll see to that." She raised her arm above her head and called out in the Ayleid tongue, smiling as a small army of zombies surrounded her and filled the gap between her and the mages.

To counter her offensive, Seanturco conjured a dremora from the very plains of Oblivion and watched it tear through the zombies with relative ease, only for the necromancer to conjure more. The Altmer turned to the Battlemage. "You take the necromancers out. I can deal with zombies," he told her, proceeding the back this statement up by sending a bolt of electricity ricocheting through three zombies simultaneously, only to watch them be replaced a moment later by the Imperial woman's spell.

Rush needed no second bidding, and she ran forward quickly, her sword passing through the decaying flesh of the long since dead zombies with ease, sending them back to their resting places where they belonged. The necromancer looked worried now and resorted even as low as feebly attempting to reanimate the corpse of Jeanne Frasoric before a fireball slammed into her chest from some unknown spellcaster and she crumpled to the floor, presumably dead.

The Orc kept her claymore drawn but shifted it from her right hand to her left as she looked about for the mysterious attacker. She was about to cast a weak Detect Life spell on herself when a Khajiit appeared from beneath his recently dispelled invisibility spell and, while Seanturco recognised the newcomer almost immediately, she did not and readied herself for another fight.

"Who are you?" Rush demanded, swapping back to her right hand deftly.

Seanturco shook his head and crossed the room to where the Khajiit was standing. "I think the real question is: what happened here J'skar? I can understand Jeanne being overpowered by necromancers, but Selena and Volanaro were experienced mages and skilled in their crafts!"

"He killed them," J'skar recounted vaguely, the terror still undeniably present in his voice. "I heard them screaming, but I was too afraid, I couldn't move... He just slaughtered them like animals one by one... Volanaro was the last, and he stood over him and... and it looked like he sucked out his soul! And then he said something about Echo Cave and destroying the Mages Guild and he looked right at me and he _grinned! _I think I'm only alive because I was invisible... She... She stayed behind to find me... I... I can't stay here... It's not safe! Traven will protect me..." He then tried to run through the door, succeeding in part until he was grabbed by the collar of his tattered brown robe by an unamused female Orc with a large sword in her other hand. He yelped in fright. "Magister, help me!" he directed at Seanturco, cowering away from her blade and squirming in her grasp.

The Altmer took a step closer to him and managed to stop him writhing for a moment to grab his attention. "J'skar, I understand you're scared, but you need to tell us _who_ did this as well."

"_The King of Worms!_" the Khajiit cried desperately, plunging the room into silence save for the crackling of fire below them and the distant tinkling of glass breaking. He began struggling again until he pleaded in a pained voice: "Please let me go to Traven! Please, I beg you, it's not safe here!"

"You have to tell them exactly what you told us..." Rush explained to him sternly, virtually lifting him from his feet to control his straining to run. He nodded hastily and she reluctantly let him go, at last convinced that he was not a threat. After they heard the door at the front of the guildhall open and slam shut again she turned to her accomplice. "We ought to return to the University as well..." she pointed out.

Seanturco shook his head. "If we go back now the Council will be in discord and we will be questioned about every single aspect of this trip. We should leave it a few days and return then, once they have divined a course of action. I suggest you find something to do in Bruma; I have a friend to visit in a place that is arguably more secure than the White Gold Tower and Imperial Palace, so you do not need to follow me. We will meet on the steps of the Chapel two mornings from now." And then he turned on his heels and left, leaving one Orcish Battlemage in a room with two corpses of women she had never met and flames licking at the floorboards from the floor below.

She resolved to leave quickly, allowing the fires to continue burning around her and allowing the ex-residents of the Bruma Mages Guild chapter to receive their unceremonious cremation.

xxx

Idari was already in Olav's Tap and Tack waiting when a Dark Elf man appeared in the doorway with an everpresent scowl upon his face and an aura of power about him. He stomped across the room and sunk into a chair without acknowledging any of the inn's occupants further than dropping a bag of coins onto the counter, which Olav hastily snatched up and began to pour a drink for him. Sensing an opportunity, the assassin crossed the room to the bar and ordered herself a tankard of mead, leaning over the counter so that Uvani could not see, picking up the wrong tankard when Olav placed them next to each other on the counter and sauntering back to her chair before the Nord noticed.

It was an old trick she and her younger brother had played on innkeepers in Morrowind when they were teenagers, and part of her was secretly surprised that it still worked after all these years. She was also shocked that, after so much time, she was still doing pretty much exactly what she had been doing when she was younger: she was still an assassin, she was still tricking hapless innkeepers... Some things would just never grow old.

She watched as Olav tentatively walked over the Uvani's table and set the mug down before him, grinning at the Dunmer's terse remark about turning the Nord's bones to ash as she observed him gazing into the tankard incredulously.

It was at this point that a female Orcish Battlemage strolled into the inn, bringing flakes of snow floating through the door after her. She ordered a drink from the bar and sat down at the table opposite Gromm who, after all this time, still seemed to have found nothing better to do with his time than sit in a bar and get drunk. Typical Nord. Idari ignored the newcomer and refocused on her mark; she didn't doubt she could probably take them all out at the same time, Battlemage or not.

The wait for Uvani to take a sip of his drink was almost agonizing, but almost as soon as the liquid entered his system he went rigid, freezing in his seat as the tankard dropped to the ground, spilling it's contents across the floor and causing most of the inn's current occupants to jump in shock. All but one.

Idari walked over to the paralyzed Dunmer languidly and smiled at him. "Are you alright, sir?" she asked him, once again using her deceptive acting skills to mask her involvement.

Red eyes focused on her instantly, burning with hatred, and he fought against his own body to force his lips to move in reply: "You filthy guttersnipe!" he snapped with considerable physical input. "By Sithis, if I could move my arms I would rip that smile right off your face!"

It astounded the assassin somewhat that he would put that much effort into insulting her like that, but it surprised her even more when she heard the word 'Sithis' escape his semi-paralyzed lips. Perhaps he was an old member of the Morag Tong? No. The Morag Tong didn't worship Sithis, even if they did worship the same Night Mother as the Dark Brotherhood.

Then perhaps, she decided, he was a rogue Dark Brotherhood assassin who Lucien saw fit to have taken out. These things happened. One did not get away with simply leaving the guild that easily.

"I'll take him to the Chapel to have the paralyzing effects reversed," Idari announced to the room, acting the Good Samaritan as she cast a Command Humanoid spell over him.

"You fetcher!" Uvani declared, trying unsuccessfully to release himself from the bonds of his allergy as his speech became more and more laboured against the effects of the honey. "As soon as I can move again I'm going to burn this place to the ground for your incompetance!"

"Do you need any help?" the Orc who had recently walked in asked as Idari strolled past.

The assassin looked at the Battlemage before her with a look of scorn. "Not from you, dungheap," she spat contemptuously before leaving the inn with Uvani following her close behind.

She continued walking for a little way until she found a secluded spot behind one of the houses which the guards would not search behind for some time before dumping her mark into the snow on the ground, fresh flakes settling in his unusual orange hair and over his burgundy outfit. She knelt beside him, Blade of Woe drawn and pressed it to the skin of his throat.

"Sleep well, Brother," she whispered quietly, her words almost lost in the wind. There was next to no reaction from Uvani, save the slight flicker of understanding in the very depths of his blood red eyes.

Then she sliced.

* * *

_Author Note: First off: my Battlemage explained. I was annoyed at the lack of Orcish mages in all the Elder Scrolls games so I made my own. Just preempting you all reckoning I copied Blood and Steel by using one. No, she's not as awesome as Gorgoth. Why did her Telekinesis spell work so well? Well, Seanturco never asked her her specialities now, did he?_

_Note that I changed the spelling of the quest's name in the title to a more British variety. 'Honour' has a 'u' in it. Simples._

_I got five reviews last chapter... Now, that isn't awful, it's above average, but it's the lowest number of reviews for a chapter in about the last 10. I reckon it may have something to do with my posting on New Years Day however, so you're all forgiven. I thought I was going to get four reviews and I was pretty unhappy, but yesterday Idledreamcatcher saved the day. I hope she recovers from her flu well enough... And yes, did she mention she loves Seanturco? :P_

_Has anybody noticed that all three DB members have been killed with her Blade of Woe to their throats so far? Urgh. I think I must be sounding like a broken record right now. OK, I shall now make a promise that I will probably break before too long: no more Blade of Woe assassinations._

_OK, so for now that's all from me. I have serious Geography work to catch up on. Toodles_

_~ARTY~_


	34. Nerevarine

_I'm definitely noticing a pattern here... All my worst chapters are set in Leyawiin and all my longest chapters are set in Skingrad (and Cheydinhal and Bruma, but not really consistantly...) So from henceforth I need to find a city to set all my best chapters in :P It's looking like Cheydinhal from my point of view (my favourite chapters are the Purification and Sigillum Sanguis), but lemme know what y'all think_

_I think, at the point that this story becomes my longest story in every way, I should take some time to thank my marvellous reviewers, well, the five who seem to review all the chapters at least. I wouldn't have got this far without you. So, thanks to DualKatanas (who has reviewed all chapters bar two, which is an epic feat), Nachtrae, Commentaholic, ZWig and Idledreamcatcher. You're all legends :) And all the others who have reviewed and aren't on this list, you haven't been forgotten about, so no fear :)_

_Oh yeah: DualKatanas - the grammar in my review for chapter 20 of BaS was appalling. I apologise wholeheartedly for the numerous typos I spotted. Typing a review at 11pm while severely distracted is never a good plan. It also seems like Seanturco got it right, Mysticism has been removed from Skyrim_

_**Quote: Prophesying prophets prophesy prophecies - Me, on the difference between Prophesy (verb) and Prophecy (noun)**_

_**Another quote: ...So his case was alike, reft of his brother but retained of his name - Egeon - The Comedy of Errors - William Shakespeare**_

_

* * *

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Chapter 34

Idari Mortha trudged through the thin layer of melting snow out of the north gate of Bruma and started the long trek up the road to Cloud Ruler Temple, aware that she would probably almost definitely have to dry her armour rather quickly before the leather shrank when she reached the top of the hill. She was surprised however, when she saw a figure walking up the hill just ahead of her, a mage by the looks of him, and an Altmer too. As far as she knew there were no mages in the Blades, besides two Battlemages who were most definitely not High Elves, and would not be wandering about in mage robes at this time of year anyway.

She approached the stranger swiftly and silently because she knew that, while the spies in Bruma had been dealt with by the Blades, it was still possible that this figure was a member of the Mythic Dawn seeking vengeance for Mehrunes Dagon and Mankar Camoran. He didn't look the type however, not from behind anyway, and any budding Mythic Dawn agent would at least have the common sense to _not_ use the front entrance and to look behind them as they climbed the hill.

She snuck up behind the stranger and dug the tip of her Blade of Woe into his back, resting against his spinal cord through his robes so that he could be permanently paralyzed at a flick of her wrist. He flinched at the contact but made no attempt to run however, raising his hands to show that he didn't have a weapon and breathing heavily.

"Who are you?" she demanded, pressing her blade slightly harder to make a impression but not enough to cause any form of injury while masking her accent with a thick Colovian one. "And what is your business here?"

Though she could not see his face, Idari was sure she sensed a small smile play across the stranger's lips as he contemplated his answer. When he finally spoke she very nearly did a double take at the fact that the voice sounded vaguely familiar and yet she had never heard it before. "I've come to visit my friend who is staying in Cloud Ruler Temple. I'm a mage with the Guild and you? You're the Hero of Kvatch if I'm not mistaken."

The assassin frowned and dug her blade into his back a little further. "What friend?" she asked, though the real purpose of her question was to ascertain how he had recognised her so quickly. She couldn't kill him, not here so close to Cloud Ruler Temple, without any form of indication that he might be a sleeper agent for the Mythic Dawn with more than one brain cell and enough common sense to form a cover story before he approached.

At that point the smile she couldn't see almost definitely broadened to a grin, a fact which annoyed the Dunmer intensely. "A young Argonian would-be assassin," the stranger replied silkily, and there wasn't a hint of irony to his tone. "Wizard with a bow and arrow, hopeless at magic, and shamefully mediocre with a sword, but brave, loyal and reliable. One time saviour of Skingrad and collecter of vampire cure ingredients... Attempted vampire hunter, failed vampire slayer... And acquaintance of the Hero of Kvatch, which, I think, is where your story converges with mine."

Something clicked. "You're that vampire that ran away in Skingrad!" she declared, trying to mask her surprise with a hefty dose of apathy.

"Vampire?" His tone was mockingly incredulous and for a split second Idari found herself disliking him even more than she had the first time they had met.

Then she realised what he had truly meant and her attempt at disguising the breath catching in her throat was, by her standards, highly pitiful, perhaps even below that. She removed her dagger from his spinal cord hesitantly. "Turn around," she commanded him. "And don't run, or I won't hesitate to kill you."

"You'd kill me this close to the Blades?"

This time she mocked him. "What could _they_ ever do to _me_?"

He understood her of course. The Blades could, and would, do nothing to her. She was their Hero, she was their hope, and she was quite possibly their only chance at redemption for having let the Emperor die. He kept his arms raised as he turned to face her because, while he knew more than a little Destruction magic, he was more than aware that she was far more skilled than him, than he most likely ever would be. The simple fact was, that if he crossed her then he would die. There were no two ways about it.

The look of shock when she saw his face would have been a picture, were it not mostly hidden by her black hood. "The Argonian is at Cloud Ruler?" she asked hurriedly, not bothering with any other form of explanation. When he nodded slowly she took off up the hill, leaving him standing alone in the melting snow on the road towards the fort with a smug expression on his face before he finally resolved to follow her before he lost all contact with his toes.

A pair of Imperial Blades opened the gates for her arrival almost as soon as they saw her dashing towards them, probably more afraid of what she might do to them than of what Jauffre might say to them. She didn't acknowledge them in any form, running past them and up the stone stairs at an alarming rate until she smashed through the double doors into the Great Hall, making a scene as well as an entrance that many Blades would not forget for a while to come.

Martin looked up from his studies with an alarmed expression on his face and an eerie silence fell for a moment between them. "Where's Turner?" Idari demanded, as if every moment in her life boiled down to this exact point in time. Calling people by their names instead of derogatory nicknames didn't come easily to her, but for now she was making an exception that she would rectify at a later date. Now was simply too important.

The Heir thought for a few painstaking seconds which left his Hero feeling more agitated than she had been before. "I would check the East Wing," he replied finally, sinking back to his work as she dashed through another door in a similar fashion to before. She hadn't run into Jauffre yet, so hopefully her visit would prove mildly uneventful... or at least avoid any unwarranted injuries to unsuspecting Blades.

The Argonian she sought sat tentatively on the edge of a wooden chair reading a book about fighting with swords while hesitantly glancing about to check what the Blades in his vicinity were doing. At the sound of the door slamming open he leapt in fright but managed to steady himself before he descended to the floor in an unglorified heap. His eyes widened when he looked up and saw her, especially since he had not expected her back so soon, and he hadn't seen her in this much of a worked up state since the Purification, an event which had deeply affected both of them and yet somehow brought her to trust him ever so slightly.

"You found it?" she asked simply, warranting strange looks from the surrounding Blades which she duly ignored, all her attention focused on the Argonian before her and her voice crackling with a sense of extreme anticipation.

Turner frowned. "How did you know that?" he replied in the form of a question, airing his own concerns while, in part, answering hers.

"That Altmer of yours was on his way up here," Idari told him, before attempting to revert the conversation back to what she actually wanted to talk about. "You found it, didn't you? Has Baurus left already, or...?"

The Argonian ignored her questions and stood up stiffly, walking past her and out into the bitterly cold courtyard. She followed him closely; normally she would have been annoyed at his ignoring her, but for some reason today the only emotion she felt capable of betraying was excitement. She had seen with her own eyes that the potion worked when she had taken a look at that mage's face, and all signs of the vampirism that had plagued him last time they had met was completely gone, from the blood red eyes to the sharpened fangs and sunken cheeks. She probably wouldn't have recognised him, had she not already identified who he was.

Turner was speaking with Jauffre, who nodded in acceptance in a way that he had never done for her before calling over two Blades and pointing in the direction of the gates and issuing them some kind of order to them, presumably to open the gates, as that was what they did following his orders, allowing the Altmer outside to enter cautiously.

"Did you find it?" Idari repeated across the courtyard so that people stopped to listen to what she had to say. The Blades had learnt the habit of ceasing all of their activities whenever she spoke lest they should miss something that would cause her to attack them.

The Argonian spun to face her head on and stared at her for a long time before answering, noting that she seemed to be working herself up for the entire silent period. "We did," he said to her, no more than two words, as he gestured to his friend who had stopped half way up the stone stairs when Idari had spoken.

A smile spread across her face then. He had seen her smile before, but that was usually when she had some sadistic or malicious intentions and was smiling at the prospect of someone else's pain, suffering or even death. Never before had he seen her smile sincerely like she did now, and nobody in the whole fort expected her to fling her arms around his neck and hug him by way of thanks. Not knowing what to do, or even how long this mood she was in would last, Turner merely stood there awkwardly as she did so. Almost as awkwardly as the time she had attempted to kiss him.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much." She let go of his neck and stepped backwards, leaving the hapless Argonian to contemplate whether that was actually the first time she had ever thanked him for anything.

There was silence for a long time afterwards in which nobody so much as moved. Eventually Turner cleared his throat audibly, the tension almost proving too much for him before he spoke again: "Well, I didn't do it alone," he pointed out to her. "I would be dead right now if Seanturco hadn't saved me..."

Idari blinked at him slowly and then turned to the Altmer who had finally reached the top of the stairs and was looking about the place while trying to stay focused on the conversation happening before him. "Why would you do that?"

"Why would I save him? The answer to that, my dear Hero, is a simple one: he is my friend. If I had allowed him to die for my own benefit it is certain that I would not be able to call myself a reasonable mer for all eternity. His actions were selfless, and he deserved repayment."

"Actions?"

A smile played across his lips for a moment, then he answered: "Slaying vampires, Dunmer, and he's got the scars on his neck to prove it. I take it you never enquired after the ingredients to the potion you demanded? Ashes of a powerful vampire, blood of an Argonian, Bloodgrass from Oblivion... It was not a simple undertaking. I doubt either of us would have succeeded alone." His politeness was forced and yet ever so slightly smug. On a different day she might have snapped at him, but today she just took his words at face value; he could have told her that he was Akatosh incarnate and she would have believed him today.

"And has Baurus left?"

Turner looked at her for a while before answering, prompting several of the Blades to wonder exactly what he was playing at by not answering her immediately. She might have been in a right emotional state, but she was still deadly with a blade. "He left perhaps an hour before you arrived. It's not me you owe your thanks to. If anybody, it's Melisande, the witch who created the potion, and Baurus, who walks all that way across the Valus Mountains, crosses the Inner Sea and enters into a burnt out wasteland in search of somebody who might be dead anyway."

Idari folded her arms and huffed indignantly. "Reron's not dead," she stated, catching several people off guard by revealing her brother's name so readily.

"How do you know that?"

"How do you know he isn't?" The reply she came back with was angry and passionate, as if she were futily attempting to convince herself otherwise. An awkward silence fell, filled in only by the rush of the wind as it blew across the courtyard with considerable force.

Finally the door to the Great Hall was opened and Martin walked out, bereft of his guards for a change, his blue eyes filled with both tiredness and triumph as he stood alone. Even nature seemed to calm for him, as the wind that had been picking up in ferocity died down almost instinctively, like a naughty child who had been caught by an angry parent. There was no anger in his face however, only knowledge, and his lips were twisted into a smile that was almost enticing to everyone viewing it. "The third ingredient," was all he said, and almost everybody present seemed to acknowledge him now for what he truly was: the last of one of the greatest dynasties that Tamriel had ever known. "A Great Welkynd Stone. Only a select few were created by the Ayleids, and over time most have been lost to banditry... but one remains in Miscarcand. We are so close to retrieving the Amulet of Kings now that it would be a shame to delay any longer."

"Miscarcand?" Idari replied, lacing her voice with intrigue in order to get over the raging torrent of emotions that were tearing through her.

"It's an old Ayleid ruin," Jauffre explained, turning heads. His arms were folded, but he seemed to be in a fairly good mood. "Slightly north-east of what's left of Kvatch, and west of Skingrad. There's a reason that it's the only Great Welkynd Stone that remains - the King of Miscarcand is said to guard his treasure even in death. I cannot allow you to go alone."

"I didn't know you cared..." came the scathing reply, followed by a deathly silence that engulfed them all. Finally the Dark Elf broke it: "The King of Miscarcand? And yet... you allowed me to face the wrath of the Underking alone?"

"That was against my better judgement. It was foolish of me, and reckless, and it endangered the Armour of Tiber Septim as much as it endangered you, and with you, the whole of Tamriel. From now on you shan't go searching for artifacts without backup."

"And which of your fine soldiers would care to accompany me?" she asked, sweeping her arm widely over most of the men and women present.

"I'll go."

While several people turned to face the speaker, Idari merely smirked. "I had figured you would follow me anyway." It was Turner, but of course it was. Who else was foolish or brave enough to follow around a deadly Dunmeri assassin? "Is that enough Breton? Or do you wish one of your pet soldiers to follow me too?"

"Yes." It was unclear which question he was answering, but by the way he was looking about at his Blades, it seemed likely to be the latter. Eventually he made a selection and spoke again: "Jena will accompany you." The Blade in question stepped forward from her duty of guarding the front entrance with a rather shocked but determined expression imprinted into her features. "She is reliable, and you need not worry about her skills with a blade. _That_ is what _I_ consider sufficient. You may leave at your own discretion, and you, mage, will be expected back at your guild. I have a letter for Arch-Mage Traven, if you would be so kind to deliver it for me."

"It would be a privellage, sir," the Altmer replied politely, inclining his head slightly. "However I will not be required at my guild for at least another day. I came to speak with my friend, but after that I shall leave you in peace."

"So be it." The Grandmaster turned on his heels and stalked back into the East Wing swiftly, as if he were late for something of the utmost importance.

Slowly but surely the Blades began to return to their duties, leaving only Jena standing with the three visitors and Martin leaning against a wooden support. It was strange for him to remain outside, but the Blades left him be; he was their ward, not their prisoner and was free to come and go as he pleased, so long as they were aware of his movements as far as possible.

"Did you wish something, sire?" the Blade asked formally, almost saluting instinctively until a disapproving look from Martin made her stop. She was an Imperial, mid to late thirties and of roughly average height, making her taller than Idari by a great margin, but far shorter than the Argonian and the Altmer who stood slightly to the side. She was dressed in full Blades armour, including the chainmail greaves, and a cuirass made of plate steel that looked as if it had been designed to fit her; a helmet covered her dark hair and a great deal of her face, making her expression difficult to read. At her hip was the standard Akaviri katana of the Blades but she carried no shield, so presumably she had left it somewhere so that it could be retrieved easily in the sight of battle.

The ex-priest sighed. "There are many things I would wish if they had any chance of coming true. Right now I wish for normality and an end to this dreadful period. I was happy in Kvatch as the son of a farmer, as a priest, but all my friends and everybody I'd known were slaughtered because of me. I understand one mustn't dwell on the past, but I cannot help but feel some kind of responsibility for all the lives that were lost..."

"You saved lives Martin," Idari pointed out to him, shocking even herself with how sincere she sounded. "All the people in the chapel were alive because of you. I believe in Fate. Just as Fate called them to die, it called you to lead, and it called me to heroism. We cannot choose our paths in life. One day, when this is over and I have gone back home, you will look back over the events of Kvatch and you will see them as the means to a necessary end..."

"I hope you're right," Martin said, his eyes turned to the ground. "I must get back to work if I am to figure out this final ingredient before the world comes to an end. Good luck... to all of you." He slipped back through the door into the relative warmth of the Great Hall without a further word on the subject.

Finally Turner addressed his friend: "So, what brings you to Bruma so quickly?"

The blueness of his eyes caught the Argonian off-guard now as they raised to meet his own golden ones. He had grown so used to them being red, for that was all he had ever known them to be. "Bruma Mages Guild..." He stopped, a realisation dawning. "You are lucky that you left their numbers when you did, my friend. I had to check up on them as part of an assignment given to me by Traven, but they're..."

"Dead?" A lump formed in the Argonian's throat and he almost choked on his words. He may not have belonged there at all, but the Bruma Mages Guild had once been his home, his family, his world... And now they were dead? "All of them?"

Seanturco forced him a smile. "There was a survivor, which is good news I suppose. My '_partner'_ and I - and I use that word in the loosest possible sense - managed to clear out the remaining necromancer and liberate J'skar from the reckage. He has gone now to Traven to tell the terrible news, and my 'partner' and I will follow on in a couple of days, once the trouble has died down."

"Necromancers? But why them? Why Bruma?"

"I don't know his morals, I only know that the King of Worms was behind it... Or so J'skar said, in his worked up emotional state. There's no way that the King of Worms could be behind it... he'd be hundreds of years old now..."

"That's because he's a lich," Idari pointed out, butting in on their conversation when she grew bored of their ignorance. "He attacked Bruma because they were the weakest guildhall and were led by a joke of a woman who couldn't have cast her way out of the paper bag with three fortify magicka potions and a scroll at her disposal. He left a survivor to strike fear into the hearts of your pathetic little guild. He's powerful... I doubt even I would have much of a chance against him in single combat, unless of course we were both silenced, which is unlikely, especially since my views on necromancers are fairly neutral. They do not bother me and I do not bother them. The Mages Guild however, bother me quite a bit with their magical monopoly, which is something Mannimarco and I have in common..."

"You would help the necromancers?" Seanturco had misjudged the level of disgust he had put into that exclamation, and he ended up sounding far more concerned about this than he had intended to, leaving himself open to whatever scathing words she was bound to throw at him in reply.

However her temper didn't seem to flare much this time. "I can see the benefits of undead minions. No brains to argue back, almost unlimited numbers and horrible diseases to inflict upon your enemies. However no, I would not side with the necromancers. The plight of the Mages Guild is nothing to do with me, or my House, and thus I have no intention of aiding either side in any way. I believe that the dead should stay dead, without being reanimated by some cowardly excuse for a mage to fight their battles for them. Didn't they hear of the phrase 'Rest in Peace'?"

"Not all Telvannis have to hate mages, you know," the Altmer pointed out to her, airing something that he had been thinking about for quite a long while. "The Nerevarine was a member of both the Mages Guild and House Telvanni... Quite highly ranked in both by the time she was famous too."

"And her name?"

Jena answered: "Melda Strongarm," she said, as if it were the only possible answer in the entire world. "She was a Blade too, and a talented fighter. One would have to be, I suppose, to be Nerevar reborn. I hear she united all three Great Houses of Morrowind as their joint Horatator, and all of the Ashland Tribes as well, albeit for the short time before she disappeared. She was truly a great woman, and one of great spirit. She was my inspiration to join the Blades..."

"She was a member of the Morag Tong too," Idari smirked. She had lost herself an argument the second that Jena had mentioned the Nerevarine's name, but that didn't mean that she didn't have a backup argument stored somewhere in her brain for later use. "I met her once... A few days before she left for Dagoth Ur. It was perhaps four years before I left Morrowind, but I remember her clearly, as Nords in Sadrith Mora are uncommon. She looked weary, tired from battle, and her armour was spattered with blood that looked as if she had beaten someone to death with her bare knuckles. She probably had, as she was going to the Morag Tong guildhall in town, but it was mostly my imagination getting the better of me." She paused to allow her point to sink in, smiling at the expression of disappointment that covered the Blade's face. "So you see, Imperial, even Heroes have flaws. Be careful who you idolise."

But even Idari knew that the Nerevarine had been special. She had fulfilled an ancient prophecy and saved Morrowind from certain doom by defeating Dagoth Ur. She had captured the hearts of the people of the province, despite being a lowly Nord in a land containing almost entirely Dunmer. She had defeated Ash Vampires in a Blight Storm, destroyed the Heart of Lorkhan. In truth, Melda Strongarm, Nerevarine, was nothing short of the stuff of legend, selected by Fate to do Her bidding and tried and tested for years until finally she disappeared. Gone to Akavir, apparently, and neither seen nor heard from again. Right now, Melda Strongarm was what Tamriel needed once more to save them, but they had Idari Mortha, bona fide assassin and Hero of Kvatch.

Fate moves in mysterious ways, but this time She had truly come up with a losing hand. Nobody with two brain cells wants to be saved by an assassin.

"Even assassins can make great heroes," Turner pointed out quietly. He wasn't sure if Jena knew that both he and Idari were assassins, and he was fairly sure that him telling her was probably not going to bode well for his relationship with the Dark Elf and, by extension, his possession of all his body parts. "Perhaps they don't have much choice... Perhaps it's all they've ever known... In fact, perhaps assassins make the best heroes. Every victory comes with sacrifices, and assassins are willing to make those sacrifices without feeling remorse or regret. Don't write off your hero just because she's an assassin."

The Blade smiled weakly, or at least she appeared to as much of her expression was hidden by her iron helmet. "That's the equivalent of your telling me that the Divine Crusader is a member of the Dark Brotherhood, though I see what you mean..."

"The Divine Crusader?"

"Haven't you heard of the attacks on the chapel in Anvil?" Jena sounded truly shocked at this statement and proceeded to inform them of the details: "A Prophet appeared outside the chapel after the attack. All the priests had been murdered, and their blood had been used to scrawl threats in the Ayleid language around the desecrated altar. He spoke of a chosen one of the Nine who would kill Umaril the Unfeathered where Pelinal Whitestrake failed, and a Redguard man accepted this challenge. They call him the Divine Crusader, and he's been collecting the relics of the original Crusader around Cyrodiil. He's a holy man, blessed by the Nine. The Nerevarine was a member of the Tribunal Temple, and an assassin too, so are you going to tell me that the Divine Crusader is an assassin?"

"The Tribunal was fatally flawed," the Dunmer informed her slowly, making moves towards the barracks so that she could rest and train with her blade before they set off for Miscarcand in the morning. "Sotha Sil went mad, and locked himself in his Clockwork City surrounded by machine minions. Vivec stayed in the city that they had named after him and lorded over them alone until he decided to disappear, dooming my homeland to a fate worse than death. Almalexia was corrupted; she murdered Sotha Sil and plotted to murder Vivec. The Tribunal, holy and powerful as they were, conspired to kill Nerevar, perhaps even did kill Nerevar. Worshipping them means nothing but trouble. They _destroyed_ Morrowind. Don't you forget that Imperial, or you might get a view of my blade from up close." She disappeared through the door, slamming it firmly behind her and sighing in relief. At least Reron would be safe now.

Outside the two friends looked at the Imperial Blade in surprise. She had gotten off quite lightly considering she had just proven the Hero of Kvatch wrong. Turner found himself wondering how long this good mood was going to last and how large the rebound was going to be after it had worn off. Last time he had been the one to escape lightly as he had offered to collect the potion to save her precious brother, but this time he had no fallback except the fact that she could attribute the origins of the potion to him.

He didn't suspect her brother would be alive, and even if he was then he would be very different to the way she remembered him. Nobody could stay a vampire for anything up the six years and not return changed. Seanturco had changed almost exponentially over a matter of months for a stuck-up pathetic excuse for a mage to a slightly less stuck-up Altmer with a tad of life experience. Turner hadn't known him before, but he suspected he wouldn't have wanted to considering the High Elf's stories of his life before vampirism. For all Idari knew, Reron could be happy as a vampire, and changing him back could be something that would drive an even bigger wedge into his relationship with his sister. Melisande had said that often people wanted their vampiric lives back after they had returned to mortality, but it was impossible to reverse, like curing Corprus making you effectively immune to the effects of all other diseases.

Idari was a fool is she expected her brother to be the same man he had been when he had left her behind, and it was probably time that she saw this fact for the truth that it represented. Otherwise she would only find out the hard way.

* * *

_Author Note: Now, this took me AGES to write. You might be thinking, in your wisdom as the reader, that ten days is a short time to write a chapter, but for me it is slow, and, in my intimate knowledge of this story, I know that I wrote over 50% of this last night after a sudden brainwave. Things that have contested with my writing: Writers Block, Forums (courtesy of Nachtrae), Eragon (courtesy of a promise I made to Commentaholic), a leaking wall (courtesy of a blocked gutter which caused the rainwater to literally pour through my wall), a guitar that's almost twice my age, and a sport called netball that I hate with a passion._

_This chapter... is not one I expect to be good. It's my first plot-filler in a long time and it's a load of talk. It's the first time I haven't changed perspective mid-chapter for about 20 chapters... And it's a lot of Morrowind references. If you haven't played the game, the player plays the Nerevarine... I've plucked a random Blade from the mix I had before me to expand upon... And, yet again, Martin manages to superhuman-ly calm nature. He's not that cool, I'm just trying to show that he's special. Trust me, at least once he's gonna walk out mid-storm. Idari's on an emotional rollercoaster and doesn't seem to be able to cope with one persona or another... Seanturco's being fairly smug... And Turner's... well, just Turner. He's cool like that._

_Next chapter things should pick up when they go to Miscarcand... Though I think y'all gonna have to wait for me to play the quest before I can write it like you had to with Sancre Tor. Oh, and since I already had a chapter called Cloud Ruler Temple, this one has a special name. Go awesomely poorly named chapter!_

_~ARTY~_

**_P.S. A song for today: Money For Nothing - Dire Straits... I wish I had been alive in the 80s, the music was awesome. Also, ironically, this song is on a CD I own called Brothers in Arms. I didn't notice this until today though, since it's also on an album called Dire Straits. How weird is that?_**


	35. Miscarcand

_**blah: Make Turner more vicious? Funny, anonymous reviewers tell me to do this and named reviewers tell me to leave him as he is... Well, considering he wasn't MEANT to be a Dark Brotherhood member in the first place, I don't think your reasoning is very sound... However, duly noted :) ~ARTY~**_

_**random dude: Hmm, two anonymous reviews in one chapter? Strange... OK, so there will be more DB members, but since Idari and Turner are not visiting the Sanctuary right now and the Speakers (who handle recruiting) are getting bumped off... There aren't any members I plan on mentioning right now. After the DB final quest there will be more for sure. And will Seanturco be joining the Dark Brotherhood? I bloody hope not. ~ARTY~.**_

_I dedicate this chapter to my good friend Rollieo 122, who's birthday is very soon. Happy Birthday Mate. And also to my little brother who turned 6 during the writing of this chapter ... And, of people who might actually read this chapter, I dedicate it to ZWig, who had the courage to point out something he thought was wrong... only for me to prove myself correct! XD_

_Does one reply to an anonymous review of chapter 1 in an author note for chapter 35? I guess not... Last chapter received nine reviews. That's a new record._

_(20/1/11) I realised today that this fic has been added to a community. It's strangely flattering. Also, today was the day that I realised that the twats at Fanfiction headquarters have removed the Oblivion section and stuffed all the Elder Scrolls games together. The phrase WTF springs to mind._

_NB - Much of this chapter is not in a _specific_ POV. And I KNOW Idari is OOC. That was deliberate._

_**Quote: A person's a person, no matter how small - Horton Hears A Who**_

_**Here endeth the lesson - Jim Malone - The Untouchables**_

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Chapter 35

A cold wind whipped through the Jerall Mountains that morning, causing several of the weather-hardened Blades to shiver openly as they stood at their sentry duties with the first signs of dawn lingering on the horizon.

Idari Mortha was already up and pacing about the courtyard with all her weapons at the ready in case something should occur that should require their usage. She hadn't slept much at all, tossing and turning and dreaming of Reron's fate or what might have become of him during his years as a vampire. The Argonian's words had scared her; she didn't know whether Reron was truly alive or not, though she refused to accept that he might in fact be dead.

During the period before dawn Cloud Ruler was almost deafeningly quiet. It wasn't that there were no people about, there had to be in order to make sure that the fort was secure at all times, it was just so devoid of life at night. After the sentries changed at four a.m. there was nothing to do but wait and watch until the majority of the other Blades awakened from six a.m. onwards, or thereabouts. Even Mythic Dawn agents slept, but at least this way all scenarios were covered.

Jena and Turner still slept, Idari supposed as she leant against the frost-ridden wall and gazed at the city of Bruma, small watchfires on the walls the only signs of any life there at all. She would make them leave as soon as they had woken up and they would ride to Miscarcand with the utmost haste.

If Reron was being brought back to Cloud Ruler by Baurus then she didn't want to stay away for any longer than she had to, though of course, if there was nothing that Jauffre wanted her to do after that then she would travel to the Imperial City to pick up her reward for killing Alval Uvani as well as the contract on her next unsuspecting victim.

The fact that Reron was coming back didn't mean that life had to stop on his behalf after all.

The wind whistled around her and she felt a burning desire to do something, to take a life, to save a province, anything. She had been so busy for so long now that this moment of complete serenity was almost alien to her. She wore the robe that she had found at J'Ghasta's house over the top of her usual shrouded armour to keep out the cold; it felt enchanted, but was so big on her that she felt like she was wearing a tent. The Khajiit had been at least a head taller than her, and had muscles that befitted the boxer that he was, while she was short but quick and deadly, deceptively so.

"Awake so early?" A Breton voice from behind almost made her jump, and probably would have done had she not heard his footsteps approaching amidst the silence.

Idari sighed. "No earlier than you."

Jauffre appeared beside her and leant against the stone battlements heavily, his armour keeping out the wind for the most part but obviously out of his comfort zone. "I suppose that with your brother saved, you have no reason to tolerate me anymore," he pointed out earnestly, as if he were more interested in her reaction than in what he was actually saying himself.

The assassin considered this briefly and then pushed herself away from the wall, her fingers enjoying the sudden respite from the cold by presenting her with a pang of pain for her efforts. "I suppose that killing you would prove... foolish of me," she told him, conflicting emotions evident in her tone. She stopped and smiled. "Who would be appointed Grandmaster upon your death?"

"It should have been Renault... She was loyal to this empire even to the point of death. Now," he paused, considering his options. "Without the direct input of the Emperor, my second-in-command is Captain Steffan. Why do you ask? Suddenly decided to take an interest in the Blades?"

"Nobody lives forever."

The Breton couldn't contest that, and he turned to face her once more. "You do know that only Blades are supposed to wield those..." he told her, gesturing to the Akaviri katana held across her back in a makeshift scabbard.

Idari smirked. "I never was one for following the rules."

The Grandmaster paused a moment, as if carefully considering a series of options. "Do you vow to protect the Emperor with all your skills, even to death?"

"It's my job to do that, I suppose," she replied truthfully, cocking her head slightly to one side as a result of the strange question. "Why?"

Breton eyes travelled back to the walls of Bruma languidly. "I think I should have named you as a Blade a long time ago..." he said contemplatatively. "Your attitude stopped me. I feared you disloyal. Even now, I speak against my better judgement, however I overheard the words you spoke to Martin last evening and I realised that I had been... judgemental of you."

"This is very out of the blue," the Dark Elf stated with a further smirk. "You still don't trust me, or you wouldn't have forced me to take one of your toy soldiers with me to Miscarcand, so why in Oblivion would you want to make me a Blade, one of your own?"

"That question is a simple one to answer," Jauffre stated, his lips curling upwards at the edges and his eyes sweeping over the Jerall Mountains with a sense of awe about them. "I believe that Fate has made it so that you will save us all."

"Wishful thinking. I'm an assassin, if you recall. Do you really think I can be the Hero that Tamriel needs?" It was truly a sincere question, but it sounded as if she were making a joke of the whole situation.

The Breton shook his head in exasperation and spun to face her. "You can't change what Fate has designated you. Tamriel needs you." His grey eyes blazed with a hidden passion that had been stirred from deep within by the moment they found themselves in. "This is the only time I will offer you Blades membership. If you accept the other Blades will treat you as their Sister, be willing to die at your side and protect you from harm. Your only duty will be to protect the Emperor with your life, if necessary..."

Idari raised a gloved hand to stop him speaking. "It is not often that I receive this level of..." she searched for the right word. "_Generosity_." It didn't sound like quite the right word as it left her lips, but it would do for describing her current feelings. "However I don't think it's such a good idea for me to... accept your offer. I will protect the Emperor without being a Blade; I give you my word on that, and my word is a precious possession for me to bestow upon you."

Jauffre nodded with a sigh. "I had expected as much..." Sufficed to say, he had expected her to attack him to make her point, which was why he had decided to make this offer to her while she was in this confused emotional state and not when she was her usual apathetically repulsive self. "Many people serve the Empire in their own ways, and you will serve in yours, as I will serve in mine, until this whole affair is over or we are both dead."

Silence fell between them briefly as the wind whipped past them once more, trying with all its might to wrench them from the ground and take them at its mercy. The Grandmaster turned and began to make his way back towards the barracks to check on his men and set his own affairs in order before the beginning of another day in Cloud Ruler Temple.

"You have trainers in the Blades, do you not?" Idari called after him on an afterthought, speaking over the gale with seemingly no effort.

"None worthy of your fighting abilities, I assure you."

The Dunmer laughed, the sound breaking through the weather to reach Jauffre's aging ears with ease. "Not for me. There is little I could learn from anybody but experience these days. For Turner. That sword of his is so big that I would be almost useless to aid him, and besides... I'm very busy and have no time to help. Once we return from Miscarcand I want him trained in combat in case anything should happen in Bruma at short notice; he's a talented archer, but if an enemy were to attack him up close..."

Jauffre raised an eyebrow. "Why should you care about him? I thought the members of House Telvanni regarded his kind as little more than slaves or animals."

"Yes, well... He's proven he has guts... I just don't want to see them strewn all over the battlefield. It takes a certain type of person to help me, to run errands for me, to stand up to me, and he's done all three. Think of it as... repaying a debt of gratitude." She refused to say anything further on the subject, returning her gaze to the walls of Bruma to find that one of the watchfires had gone out, leaving a dark void in the city's outline silhouetted against the snowy white ground. Hastily the guards of Bruma seemed to notice, and probably summoned a Battlemage from the barracks to relight the fire for them, especially if the Altmer's story of the demise of the Bruma Mages Guild was true, because suddenly the fire sprang back into life, completing the shape once more.

Eventually the Grandmaster sighed and continued about his rounds, leaving her alone in her contemplation as the sun rose slowly over the peaks of the mountains. Jena was first to appear, on the dot at 6a.m. with practiced military efficiency, her shield adourning her arm now that she had plans to go into battle.

Idari approached her with a slightly menacing air about her. "You do realise that your katana is going to have _no_ effect on the types of things we'll be dealing with," she pointed out sharply, causing the Blade to reach for the hilt of her sword instinctively. "Skeletons you can hack up... But wraiths... lichs... ghosts... They don't get hurt by anything less than silver." The Dunmer tapped her silver shortsword gently. "I'm not going to be watching your back, so you need to find something to make you capable of watching your own." Her words were scathing but her expression beneath her hood was sincere. "How will you protect your Emperor if you can't cope with everything they have to throw at him?"

Jena frowned and folded her arms. "I don't expect you to watch my back. I do not know to whom you keep your allegiance, but it is not to me, and likewise I do not keep my allegiance with you. I have my orders to retrieve the Great Welkynd Stone, not to protect you, and any insubordination will not go unpunished."

Idari chuckled. "Threatening me already?" She drew her shortsword and slashed towards the Imperial's neck, and had it parried easily by an Akaviri katana wielded by a skilled Blade. Jena snarled, but the Dark Elf merely smiled. "You and I will get along just fine," she grinned, sheathing her shortsword again and very nearly skipping away. "We'll leave as soon as I've dragged that Argonian's lazy arse out of bed."

It was strange for her to be in such a good mood, especially at the prospect of gallivanting off across Cyrodiil under somebody's orders - and _everybody_ at Cloud Ruler knew she had an attrocious problem with authority - but for some reason she felt surprisingly light-hearted today.

_Reron_.

Everything boiled down to Reron in the end. Her mood, her skills, her attitude. She had trained hard for years just so she could be prepared for the day when she could fight alongside her brother once more, and this time it would be her saving him. That was her dream. That was her purpose.

And soon all this would be over.

Turner wasn't sleeping. He was sitting in the barracks speaking with his Altmeri friend in a low voice; Idari presumed they were speaking of the past, the time they had spent together in search of a cure for the plague that was vampirism, the hardships they had endured. Turner had fought a vampire? She couldn't see it as having ever happened. And he had been saved by a vampiric mage? Fire. Yes, fire was the only way to assure taking out a vampire, their one true weakness. Mages were perfect to destroy vampires.

"Pondscum, we're leaving," Idari called across the room to him, causing both of them to look up simultaneously. "It should be a day's ride to Skingrad, if we set a decent pace, and from there an hour or two to reach Miscarcand..."

The Argonian sighed wearily. "Why the rush? You never cared about saving Tamriel before..." Nevertheless, as he spoke he rose from his sitting position and his friend did the same, and he strung his bow over his shoulder, despite the fact that it would be completely useless against the undead in the ruin.

"What does this have to do with saving Tamriel? I'm keeping busy until Reron is safe. If I had a contract, I would fulfil the contract; if I need to retrieve a Great Welkynd Stone, I'm going to retrieve a Great Welkynd Stone. You _offered_ to come along. I can quite happily leave without you."

She turned on her heels and stalked back out of the barracks, heading directly to the stables to collect Shadowmere, managing to lead him out before Turner even appeared in the doorway, rubbing his gloved hands together in light of the sudden temperature drop between the inside and the outside.

"Let's go then," he announced, disappearing inside to return with his own black horse. He turned to Seanturco with a small smile. "Farewell my friend. What I said at the Imperial City about us meeting again still stands... Good luck with Traven, you might have a panic on your hands when it comes down to it."

The Altmer nodded and watched as Turner led his horse down the stone steps carefully, almost stumbling on one of the stairs halfway down. He followed slowly, long golden fingers interlaced behind his back. "I have to go and find that annoying Orc now," he muttered to himself, a smirk forming on his lips. "She truly is dreadful, but I suppose a necessary partnership."

Idari snapped around to face him all of a sudden. "A female Orcish Battlemage? Try Olav's Tap and Tack... At least, that's where she was when I saw her last. Aren't you truly _lucky_ to have such a _fine_ method of protection." Her voice dripped with layers upon layers of sarcasm as Shadowmere walked himself down the stairs unattended.

Jena was waiting at the base of the steps, a chestnut horse's reins held firmly in her gauntleted hand. At the sight of them, she mounted the horse smoothly, stroking it's mane affectionately. It was a mare by the looks of it, and a fine specimen with strong legs for running and a streamlined body coated in short brown hair.

Shadowmere stopped of his own accord to allow his master to climb into his saddle at her own leisure. Turner mounted Snowdrop as nimbly as he could manage, which consisted of jumping twice and scrambling the rest of the way as the horse looked prepared to bolt at the slightest thing.

They set off and Seanturco watched them go without a word before slowly making his way back down the mountainside, a letter from Jauffre bound for the Arch Mage stuffed safely into his robes and a solemn expression on his face.

Bruma was still waking up, and the few people who were walking about looked bleary eyed and tired, save for a few choice soldiers from the City Guard strolling around as they had likely been all night. Up at the castle small fires burned amongst the tents of the soldiers brought in from the other towns, gathered by the Hero of Kvatch. All the towns except Anvil by the looks of it. They huddled around their small campfires for warmth grimly, some men alone and other men surrounded by their comrades, keeping their armour on just so they didn't freeze to death in the icy conditions. It was the best that the Countess could offer them however, and they made do. The battle could be at any moment, any day, any time, and they had to be ready for it when it came no matter what the circumstances.

From the North Gate the Altmer walked through the city quickly to the inn that Idari had pointed him to, flexing his fingers to stave off the cold that was attacking them with such vigour. He slipped inside the inn in question and glanced about quickly, ascertaining that it appeared empty and that none of the occupants had awoken yet. It could barely be classed as an inn; it was more of a dive or a hovel in Seanturco's opinion and was barely a level above squalor, and the smell... It smelt of unwashed Nord mixed with a rather large dose of alcohol and hunks of salted meat that mingled together to smell rather terrible.

Seanturco cringed. This was just the sort of place that he could imagine Rush finding herself comfortable.

A snore from behind the counter almost made him jump out of his skin and he approached slowly, tiptoe-ing around a puddle of what appeared to be spilt mead - he wasn't prepared to take any chances on what it might actually be - until he was close enough to see the Nord asleep behind it, presumably Olav. He cleared his throat loudly and the man began to stir, tumbling out of bed ungracefully before scrambling upright, blinking furiously to wake himself up.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, sleep lacing his every aspect.

The Altmer took a step backwards when the smell of the Nord's breath reached his nose. "I... was looking for an Orc Battlemage, and I heard she was staying here?"

Olav leant heavily on the bar for support and swayed slightly with a mixture of tiredness and alcohol. "You heard right, friend. She's er..." He paused and tapped his head as he thought before pointing a thumb over his left shoulder. "In there, I think. She a friend of yours?"

Seanturco followed the Nord's directions before answering. "Friend is definitely the _wrong_ word," he sneered as he pushed the door open and strolled inside, wiping his hands on his robes to clean them as he did so.

The Battlemage was dragging herself out of bed quickly, her armour in a pile to the side, she slept in a plain green shirt and brown trousers. "What happened to the Chapel tomorrow morning?" she groaned as she reached for her iron cuirass.

"Complications," the Altmer offered as his only form of explanation, turning away slightly to protect her modesty, despite the fact that she didn't seem bothered at all. "We'll be leaving as soon as you're ready, so hurry it up and we'll be out of here."

xxx

They set a fast pace towards Skingrad. None of them were really interested in talking about anything in particular and so large chunks were spent in complete silence save for the gentle rhythmic clack of three sets of hooves on the road. They weren't bothered by any bandits along the way, surprisingly, but Turner suspect that it was something to do with the fact that Jena was wearing full Blades armour that was unmistakeable to anybody who knew anything about anything, and that Idari was scary enough to terrify the biggest ogre in Tamriel into submission with a single glare... Or perhaps that was an exaggeration.

Idari rode on ahead of them slightly due to Shadowmere's obvious advantage over the regular horses that the other two owned and frequently took to levitating stones from the ground into her hands for no apparent reason while she was waiting for them to catch up. Now that they were out of the mountains, they no longer needed to wrap up warm to keep out the cold and all removed a cloak of some description, which the assassins tucked into their leather armour and the Blade lay across her horse's neck.

"That's a beautiful animal you have there, Jena," Turner pointed out once the silence got a little too tedious for his liking. He had grown so used to the constant company when he had been travelling with Seanturco that now every other journey he would take would seem almost dead by comparison.

Jena smiled and patted the mare's neck affectionately. "My father was an ostler when I was a child and despite the cliche I shall tell you that I raised this one from a foal. She's one of the finest that my father and I ever bred."

"What's her name?" The Argonian glanced down at his own black horse and sighed; Snowdrop was a good horse, but he doubted they would ever have any form of owner-horse relationship. He wasn't good with animals.

"Viatrix," the Blade said happily. "It means traveller in the ancient tongue of my people, which is rather ironic for a horse, I suppose. Does your's have a name?"

Turner chuckled to himself. "I've always called her Snowdrop," he explained through stifled laughter. "That, I suppose, is a more ironic name than Viatrix."

The Imperial laughed with him before glancing about shiftily. "How in Oblivion do you put up with the Hero of Kvatch?" she asked him, her face unreadable beneath her protocol helmet. "You are probably the only person in all of Tamriel who would _volunteer_ to accompany her anywhere..."

"Watch yourself, her hearing's good," the assassin pointed out, before considering the question briefly. "She saved my life, and I saved her brother. It's more like mutual acceptance than anything else. Before I met her I was little more than a slave and useless in every aspect of the word; I'm still useless at magic, but that's not entirely my fault. To be honest, and now it's my turn to cliche, she isn't that bad once you earn her trust."

Jena was mentally preparing her reply when Idari rode back up the road to meet them, Shadowmere's red eyes burning as intensely as her own. She had a smile on her face, though no longer a truly sincere one, and the position of the sun meant that her hood shrouded much of her face in shadow for the time being.

"We're making good progress," she stated, pulling an indistinguishable expression and Shadowmere snorted loudly, making the other two horses shy away slightly. "However if Jauffre wants his Welkynd Stone before spring sets in, I suggest we pick up the pace. I plan to reach Skingrad early enough so that we can set out to Miscarcand before darkness fully sets in, so from now on we'll ride as quickly as we are able. Questions?"

"Once we get to Miscarcand, then what?" Turner asked her quickly, voicing the opinions of both of them.

"We find the Great Welkynd Stone. The ruin will be full of undead if it's guarded by a lich as Jauffre said, so you won't be able to use your bow. You have a daedric sword though, which is fine. With spirit-like undead, aim for the middle; it might look as if your sword is going straight through, but daedric and silver weapons sever the magicka that is keeping them alive, as it were, so they should pretty much just dissolve. Ghosts, don't get close enough for them to curse you, it lasts ages and is extremely irritating after a while; wraiths, avoid their spells and avoid their weapons, as many of them carry enchanted swords or daggers which leave wounds that are almost impossible to heal; zombies, don't let them bite you, you'll get a disease which can get very nasty very quickly; and skeletons, hack, don't stab, they fall apart at the slightest thing, no matter how big their weapons or shields they should easily go down in one hit. Lichs are the only problem. If we encounter any you should steer clear unless you have a death wish; I can handle lichs, so you needn't worry. Just stay alive and don't do anything stupid. You survived Oblivion twice, so I daresay you can survive a ruin full of undead with your eyes shut."

Her words, simple as they were, were strangely reassuring. Turner suspected that this mood of hers would not last long however, especially if there came a point when she was required to do something for Lucien again. He found himself wondering how many contracts she'd fulfilled since they'd last spoken, and supposed it would be more than one. He would go with her on her next contract. Where else was he supposed to go?

Once they arrived at Skingrad they set off in search of supplies, mainly potions of healing and cure disease which Idari could have easily stolen from one of the alchemists in the city but Jena insisted they purchase legally. Needless to say, Turner did not volunteer to have another encounter with Falanu Hlaalu.

The Blade went off by herself, leaving the two assassins in the streets outside. With the light in the sky waning, the morning glory that covered many of the grey stone buildings looked exceedingly more vibrant than they did in the light, perhaps because they stood out even more than during the daytime. Idari strolled a little further down the street and looked up at one of the buildings which had a wooden balcony; with the narrowness of the street, the balcony of the house opposite was just a short jump away, any thief's ticket the riches. The house in question had a plaque on the door which read '_Rosethorn Hall_', and the positioning of that same balcony also meant that it was just as simple to break into Hammer and Tongs next door to loot them of their wares as well.

She turned back to the Argonian. "Did you know that in Summitmist Manor," she pointed her thumb over her shoulder at the building on the other side of the street. "Five people were murdered without a single one realising who the killer was?"

Turner looked at her blankly. It definitely sounded like something she would enjoy doing. "I didn't know that at all," he said, looking at the house in question suspiciously. "I suppose they never caught the murderer..." They were still in a public place, so he still had to be rather careful about what he said, and as such he was keeping his sentences rather vague.

"I'm fairly sure their killer is dead now..." She was smirking beneath her hood, but the smirk was not malicious. If it were anybody else, it would have been described as almost asking for forgiveness, but from her... Who knew?

It was a message though, and Turner understood it instantly. She'd _Purified_ the person who had killed the five people in Summitmist Manor even if she hadn't done the killing in Skingrad herself. But who was more skillful? The killer of five unsuspecting house guests, or the killer of seven highly trained but unsuspecting killers? Idari was one of the best, there was no denying it, but she had flaws just like everybody else.

After perhaps fifteen minutes Jena re-emerged from _All Things Alchemical_ with an armful of potions and a slightly startled expression visible on her face despite the helmet she was wearing. "She's a necrophiliac!" the Blade gasped as she handed potions to each assassin.

The Argonian laughed. "I know. I bought nightshade leaves and garlic from her in order to complete the cure for vampirism, and she asked me about the fine for necrophilia in Cyrodiil!"

Idari frowned as she accepted the small vials of liquid and stowed them in the pockets of her armour. She glanced at the sign advertising the shop and her eyes narrowed. "It's idiots like her that give my people a bad name," she spat, inspecting the daedric lettering closely. All Dunmer were educated fully in daedric before they were educated in Cyrodilic, which probably explained the prevalence of daedric shrines in Morrowind. Her fists balled slightly as she half considered going into the shop and teaching the offending Dark Elf a lesson, probably a fatal one, however she stopped herself, exhaling deeply, and spoke once more: "We need to get to Miscarcand before we lose all light. Jauffre said that it was north-east of Kvatch, so do you know your way, Imperial?"

Jena nodded and searched her pockets, bottles of potions clanking together as she did so. "Grandmaster Jauffre provided me with a map," she explained, withdrawing the piece of paper carefully and unfolding it. She looked at it for a moment before continuing. "We should follow the road until we cross this bridge here," she pointed at the location she has describing with her left index finger. "From there we turn north-west, and it's a straight run from there. If we don't have enough light for navigation, Grandmaster Jauffre also provided me with a compass."

"It is far easier to navigate by the stars than it is the navigate by the sun," Idari snapped in reply, looking at the dwindling light in the sky curiously. "This is the most difficult period of the day in which one wants to find themselves lost. I don't want to lose light so that we will not be sitting ducks for an ambush..." She pointed at a small rocky outcrop. "Since this is the location of the camp of a notorious bandit gang of Khajiits. We all know that the Khajiit have no trouble in the dark, and for us fighting in the dark will be tedious and require magical aids, which I am not prepared to provide from three people with a battle resting over our heads." She paused a moment for effect. "_That_ is why we are going to reach Miscarcand before we lose light."

Turner merely shrugged in agreement. "Makes sense," he said, looking upwards. The sky was a milky blue colour and the sun was descending fast, off to light the rest of Nirn for a time before it returned in the early morning. He started towards the gate. "Let's go then," he suggested, glancing over his shoulder at the two women.

They followed, retrieving their respective horses silently and setting off once more down the Gold Road between Skingrad and Kvatch. The Gold Road was possibly one of the longest in Cyrodiil, stretching from the Imperial City where it met the Red Ring Road in the midst of the Great Forest all the way to Anvil, where it was halted only by the sea. It crossed the West Weald and the Gold Coast, linking Skingrad to both Kvatch and Anvil in a single, unfaltering transport link, over easily some of Cyrodiil's most beautiful scenery.

The three rode swiftly, the time for chatter long since passed as a grim determination hung over each of them individually. At the bridge in question they turned off the road and travelled at full tilt in the direction of the ruin known as Miscarcand. True to Idari's word, they reached it not long before the light completely disappeared from the area.

If one were to study Ayleid architecture, one might notice the similarity between the Imperial City and any one of the ruined Ayleid forts that once dotted the province, the circular layout, the sections protruding from the overall structure. If it wasn't obvious that the Imperial City had been built by the Ayleids, then one look at Miscarcand would have confirmed this fact beyond any shadow of a reasonable doubt.

However something was wrong at Miscarcand.

Fires crackled in the distance towards the entrance of the ruin and high-pitched shrieks rang out through the surrounding trees. The three dismounted, and a swift word to Shadowmere to guarantee the survival of the other animals was all it took before they began their approach cautiously.

Goblins danced about burning pyres of wood, their skin glinting in the firelight like scales of fish and dead slaughterfish carcasses beneath their feet. It looked almost tribal, their leather armour banging against their scaling bodies whenever they moved, and anybody who knew a little about goblins and their behaviour would probably tell of how they organised themselves into tribes with their own unique system of society.

The three should watching for a few brief moments before they all almost simultaneously reached the conclusion that a tribe of goblins outside was not useful to their quest to find the Great Welkynd Stone. Turner led the way, drew his bow and nocking an arrow, aiming for the biggest goblin of the group and letting the projectile fly, brushing the sickening thud that followed to the back of his mind as he drew another arrow from his quiver and took out another as the goblins began to run about the fire, screeching in panic now that their supposed leader lay dead, a single arrow protruding from his heart. Idari leapt into action, springing over the stone column that they had been using as a place from which to observe the creatures in a single leap and sending an orb of fire slamming into the chest of one of the goblins who was so close that she could have touched it, then she drew her shortsword as sliced easily through the armour of another, disembowelling it with almost non-existant effort.

Jena followed the two assassins last, her Akaviri katana sharp enough to cleave each creature it came into contact with almost cleanly in two. She had always had a sneaking suspicion that these two were not quite what they appeared to be, and their attitudes to the deaths they caused confirmed this, even if they were only slaughtering goblins this time around. A goblin lunged at her with a short iron dagger which she caught easily on her shield, knocking it from the creature's scrawny hand towards the fire around which the body pile was growing steadily. She swung her katana in retaliation and the goblin attempted to perform a similar manoeuver, despite the fact that it held only a pathetic leather shield that the sword passed through with only a tearing sound to indicate it had been there at all. The goblin's neck was also in the line of her sword, and the blade passed through until it struck the bone with a thud, a snap and the gurgle of blood. Jena removed her blade from the creature's neck and ran it through mercifully, rather it died quickly than slowly and painfully, before looking at the battlefield.

It was empty now, save for the bodies of perhaps a dozen goblins and two figures in black armour standing across the fire from her. She stepped over the corpses with distinctive apathy, sheathing her katana as she walked.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?" she said simply, strolling towards the entrance to the ruin with confidence. She had noted in that short period that neither of them seemed to like the idea of blood, as they had both chosen to stand in what could probably be described as the only patches that were _not_ completely sodden with mud, however the Argonian seemed to be reacting more violently than the Dunmer, actually physically fighting the urge to cringe at the sight, or possibly the smell, of the substance. Jena had been a soldier long enough to be relatively unaffected by the blood and the deaths, though occasionally her conscience would flash up in her mind when she thought that some killing might have been unnecessary. This had been one of those occasions, but apparently these two thought it proper to kill first, and then stop to think afterwards.

The door to Miscarcand was unsurprisingly at the very centre of the circular ruin, a thick stone door crafted specifically to keep intruders out and prisoners in, but easily opened by a person who knew what they were doing. The Ayleids had been clever, and had had a stronger grasp on magic than many of the races left today could ever even dream of, so their fortresses had been well designed to fit their purposes, full of traps and lingering curses, lit by magical stones that could restore the spent magicka of whosoever recited in the correct tongue to activate them. While the Ayleids had spoken in Cyrodilic, they reserved their own special language as the language of magic and power, and _that_ was the language that they had used to guard their strongholds.

Unfortunately for the once great Ayleids, it was a language known rather well by a certain Dunmeri assassin-cum-Hero.

Stone scraped against stone as the door opened slowly to permit them enter, alerting any of the ruin's inhabitants to the presence of fresh meat, so each of them drew their swords instinctively before they ventured inside.

Fresh blood was splashed across the pale stone floor with no body to accompany it, a definite sign of something being mildly wrong.

Undead creatures did not bleed.

Idari frowned and cast a chameleon enchantment over all three of them so that they could get closer without risk of being discovered, sneaking down the steps silently as the other two followed the passageway, unsure of her exact location or the location of one another. It may have been a clever move in her mind, but without Detect Life it was going to prove rather difficult for them to stay together as a group until they found the Great Welkynd Stone.

The source of the blood soon became apparent: a rogue detachment of goblins had somehow found their way into the ruin, perhaps because the magic of the door recognised that they had barely enough braincells to _breathe_, let alone pillage a ruin. The goblins fought the undead fiercely, and the battle was rather one-sided, despite the fact that neither side was much better equipped than the other. Nevertheless, corpses were piled on one side, while piles of bones littered the other, the undead being comprised almost entirely from skeletons.

As she stood watching, Idari felt herself being walked into by one of the others, an event that caused a distinctive scuffling sound that rang out just loud enough to get the attention of the battling factions across the room. Inwardly she swore at her own stupidity, but the fact that they were invisible left a lot to the imagination of the near brainless beings battling it out, and eventually the fight appeared to resume. This time she muttered a Detect Life spell just to be sure and continued onwards through the ruin, avoiding the fight to the best of her abilities as the other two followed suit.

Following another passageway led them to a raised walkway which they crossed cautiously, each of them very much aware of the traps that were usually in this position to take out unsuspecting travellers. Surprisingly enough, however, there were no traps on this particular walkway, despite the fact that a heavy metal gateway blocked the way to the door on the other side that glowed with a blue tree-shaped symbol that radiated pure magicka.

This time Idari swore out loud as she could not recall any kind of spell that was strong enough to destroy the obstruction to their path. The purple haze that appeared to be Jena dropped from the raised walkway to the stone floor beneath gracefully, landing with only a muffled sound despite her heavy armour. The Dunmer and the Argonian remained put as they watched the purple blob running across the room below, and Idari grinned sadistically when a goblin seemed to suddenly eviscerate itself without any form of warning. Two high-pitched shrieks followed before the metal gate began to descend before their eyes, apparently opened by some kind of remote device.

"We should wait for Jena," Turner's voice whispered as the Dark Elf approached the glowing door that was labelled _Sel Vanua_, though he was fairly sure that Idari didn't care about the Blade's fate in the slightest.

She didn't appear to be listening to him, as her purple outline did little more than approach the door, open it with a couple of choice words and renew the spells she was keeping over both of them. Unlike Seanturco, she didn't like keeping spells of a long duration running. It was less draining initially, but at least in a one-time limited duration spell it was possible to regain some magicka between castings.

A life-signature without a visible body approached them before Idari had had a chance to disappear however, and the Imperial stated her name to them quickly in order to identify herself before they set off again, explaining briefly that she had found a pressure block which had opened the gateway, much to her satisfaction.

Sel Vanua was much the same as the first section, with winding passageways and areas that had been cut off from adventurers. Once again goblins fought with undead, but this time the undead were the clear victors, losing only one to every five goblins they killed. In the centre of the first room a pedestal alight with white magicka essence was positioned with a cage over the top of whatever it was meant to be displaying and undead particularly concentrated around it, perhaps drawn in by the light to protect it, whatever it was.

It was a Varla stone, Idari observed, more precious than a regular blue Welkynd Stone due to its ability to recharge and restore anything held in the possession of a person who knew the way in which to release its power. For a short moment she was sorely tempted to acquire the stone for herself, but thought better of it as removing the cage from around it would take up more time that she was not in possession of at this current point in time. She made a mental note to return here if she ever had a spare moment.

Once again their path was blocked by a metal grate, probably engineered like the previous one to only be opened remotely. The Dark Elf swore in frustration at the sight of it, and attempted to relieve her anger by destroying the nearest skeleton in sight with her blade, ignoring the fact that she was drawing attention to herself and stalking away angrilly, leaving the confused undead to flock around their fallen comrade.

Sensing that Idari was probably about to do something stupid like remove their joint invisibility, Turner drew his daedric blade from its scabbard as quietly as he could manage which, for him, was not really very quietly at all, and the skeletons began to flock towards the sound, surrounding him until they could almost touch him. The problem with being invisible was that you weren't intangible, and as soon as somebody touched you that was it, your cover was blown; chameleon was better, it allowed you to touch, to open doors, to pick things up, but still if somebody touched you then that was that. You were found.

Idari was gone, but the three or four skeletons had made their ways to the source of the sound inquisitively. So close were they, that if they had stopped to listen then they might have heard the breaths of an assassin and a Blade who stood mere feet away, afraid to move in case they caused another sound. Jena drew her katana silently and took one very muffled step forwards, heeding the Hero of Kvatch's words to merely _hack_ skeletons to pieces.

It was not mistimed either, since Turner suddenly found himself able to see the Blade and, upon closer inspection, himself as well, the purple glow that had been surrounding everything gone like a puff of smoke in the wind. It took the skeletons about as long to register this fact as well.

Jena hacked at the first one, an archer, once, twice, three times until one bone snapped and the rest came tumbling down after it, thudding to the floor almost as loudly as the quiver of arrows that joined it.

The Argonian looked up at the skeleton that was approaching him - skeleton_s_ would have been a more appropriate word, but only one was within any kind of distance that he deemed unsafe - and very nearly panicked. He swung his daedric sword as heavily as he could, putting enough weight behind it to get it to move and falling short by merely inches in the process of throwing himself off balance but narrowly avoiding an arrow that would have imbedded itself into his face if he hadn't stumbled; it caught him on the shoulder, glancing off his leather armour with enough force to leave a sizeable bruise but do little actual damage.

The skeleton readied itself to swing at him as he stumbled, his archer companion taking aim only to be hacked down by the rampant Blade before it could take its shot. Surprising even himself, Turner managed to regain his balance without ending up on the floor, planting his two feet firmly while still doubled over, sword in his right hand.

As the skeleton swung its blade in the direction of his head, he spun in a small spiral, his sword passing through the spine of the skeleton as if it were passing through a twig from a tree with a gut-wrenching crack.

Looking up, Turner saw Jena take out the last skeleton with some precision as the gate behind him began to open, startling him enough to make him physically jump in shock. He had surprised himself really; he had killed with a blade before once or twice, but that had been when he had been so high on adrenaline that he ought to have been flying, whereas this time he felt next to nothing, save the bruise on his shoulder, which he wouldn't have felt until after adrenaline had worn off anyway. Generally, when adrenaline wasn't in his system making his thoughts all wrong and his body twice as strong, he made a fool of himself in combat, tripping over or dropping his sword, but this time he had remedied his problem _alone_. Without Idari.

Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

The Dark Elf re-emerged presently, her usual scowl fixed back on her face as she marched up to the offending door, this one also veiled in the same blue magic essence in the same tree-like pattern, apparently a favourite of the Ayleids as it seemed to be common in many of their ruins, though perhaps that was because this particular symbol had some kind of magical power that was no longer understood. The _only_ difference from this door to the last was the word _Morimath_ written upon it in a spidery script unlike the majestic sign that had led to Sel Vanua.

With a few choice words, the trio slipped through the door quickly, no longer invisible as Idari didn't see fit to waste her magicka any longer. They had taken care of themselves while she had been away so they didn't need her protection.

Immediately the smell of rotting flesh hit them, clinging to their nostrils as it permeated from every imperfection in the stone walls and every crack in the ground. Jena gagged as it first hit her, slapping a hand across her face to prevent at least some of it from reaching her nose, while the other two seemed relatively unaffected.

"Zombies," Idari pointed out. "You'll be alright Pondscum, you can't catch diseases. Don't let them bite you, the wounds can go septic in minutes, and then these pathetic little potions won't make the blindest bit of difference. Aim for the torso. You've heard of headless zombies, but have you ever heard of body-less zombies? No. Look out, watch each other's backs. I'm going to get that Welkynd Stone."

She ran off down the narrow passage, and the other two followed after her, stumbling on the putrescent ground or just generally diturbed by the smell. But this zone was a simple one, so simple in fact that there was only one direction in which she could have run, and they caught up to her in a matter of minutes as she fought with one of the zombies in the narrow space.

The undead being growled in an overworldly tone and lunged at her with it's rotting arms outstretched, but she dodged backwards easily, taking two steps and adopting a low stance to maintain her balance. Quick as a flash she struck, her shortsword moving like an extension of her own arm, and the creature barely had time to allow another low moan to escape its decaying lips before it crumpled to the floor and she ran it through one last time.

"Fire!" she pointed out, as if remembering something. "Zombies can't deal with fire. How do you stop something from rotting? You dry it out." Then she ran on again while Turner made his best attempt to keep up with her. Jena followed wearily, prepared to return to Cloud Ruler Temple and stay there until the end of her days so long as she never had to deal with another zombie again.

So disturbed was she that she didn't notice the distinctive sound of a zombie lumbering up behind her until she felt herself being wrapped in a decaying embrace, pain tearing a scream from her lungs that immediately alerted the other two. The Argonian was back in a flash, bow drawn and an arrow nocked, Idari appearing beside him, apparently muttering to herself. He searched for an opening as the zombie began tearing at Jena's armour and she desperately reached for the hilt of her sword, fear evident even beneath her helm. Turner found one and the arrow flew, igniting in mid-air due to the magic that had been placed upon that arrow by the Dunmer for added effect; it glanced off the Blade's steel helmet and struck the zombie in the centre of its rotted face, staggering it enough for Idari to approach and run it through as the Argonian ran to catch the Imperial.

Mainly her wounds were superficial: bruises, scrapes and a significant knock to both her pride and her confidence, but it was a single gash on her arm at the base of her left pauldron that worried the two assassins. Dealing with an injured Blade was not what either of them wanted to be doing right now. Fumbling with the potions in his pocket, Turner withdrew one potion of cure disease followed by one potion of healing and gave them to her, watching her drink and the wound on her arm heal up.

She got to her feet shakily. All these years of Blades training, and yet she had still made the fatal mistake of not covering her back. She mentally kicked herself, putting the error down to the distinct lack of real action she had seen in the past six years and scolding herself for a primative error that even new recruits ought not be making. Drawing her katana into her left hand she swung it experimentally, testing her grip, her shield still attached to her right arm only by the fact that it had been lashed there in the first place.

"Thank you," she croaked. In truth she had been impressed with their teamwork, something she had never expected to see from the Hero of Kvatch who supposedly preferred to fight her battles alone and made a point of telling the Grandmaster so every time they came into contact with one another.

"Watch yourself," Idari growled in reply. For someone who had made it quite clear that she was not prepared to watch anyone's back but her own, she seemed rather willing to help them and offer them advice. Perhaps in battle her personality was different to when she was expected to be sociable, or perhaps it was the personalities of everybody else that changed instead. Either way, in this high stress situation, she seemed far easier to get along with.

There was another raised walkway in front of them, roughly ten feet from the floor below and with sheer drops on either side. Beneath there appeared to be two zombies, but powerful ones, who growled in frustration at the recognition of the presence of the three intruders but didn't seem to have any way in which to ascend to the platform and take them out, so the adventurers pushed them to the back of their minds unconsciously.

Before them the Great Welkynd stone sat on its stony magic pedestal, claws holding it in place and the magicka flowing through it causing the clear glass to glow intensely, lighting the room.

The Hero of Kvatch approached it hesitantly, the rumours of the King of Miscarcand returning to her thoughts along with an overwhelming sense that the Ayleids would almost definitely have installed some kind of trap system to protect their most precious possession of all. Plucking it from its resting place, the position it had been resting in for centuries, the light extinguished itself and for a moment there was silence, followed by a roar of frustration and the sound of stone sliding against stone as three stone stairwells began to rise upwards from the lower levels, permitting the zombies to climb.

Turner nocked an arrow and drew his bowstring taut, taking aim at the first zombie and praying to gods he didn't believe in that this plan of his would work, letting the arrow fly as Idari jumped down and took out the second despite the fact that she was still holding the Great Welkynd Stone under her left arm. Shocked that his plan had actually born fruit, he turned to face the direction that they would use to escape this place, only to find his path blocked by a creature unlike anything he had ever seen before. Jena had seen it too, and had actually stepped backwards in an attempt to look for an alternative exit.

It looked like a cross of something between a skeleton and a zombie and it wore an ancient metal crown, carried a large wooden staff. The King of Miscarcand, without a doubt.

When the Dunmer saw it she began analysing its weaknesses instantly as it began rasping in Cyrodilic about them returning his rightful property to him, the King of this place.

Their only response was the bolt of electricity that the Hero of Kvatch sent spiralling towards the lich, something which caused him to draw his ancient staff into his age-old fingers.

"Imperial, hold this," Idari demanded, shoving the Great Welkynd Stones into the hands of the Blade. "Pondscum, draw your sword. Liches aren't damaged by anything less than silver."

Both seemed to understand the basic instructions, ducking out of the way as magic almost as old as Nirn herself whistled past them and struck the ancient stonework with such force that part of the wall seemed to crumble away at its touch. The Dunmer jumped in response, lunging low and striking out at the lich's legs with her silver shortsword; though he moved out of the way to miss her blow, she was close enough to lay her palm on him and mutter the start of the incantation for a devastating spell before she was swept away by the lich's staff was surprising force, sending her sprawling off the walkway and landing in a heap on the cold stone floor below.

Fear gripped Turner now, for if it had taken out the best swordswoman he knew in a single stroke, then what could it possibly do to him? Still he ran in a foolish act that would almost certainly get him killed unless the gods finally saw fit to help him for the first time in his life. He ducked beneath the spell that the lich fired and swung with more force than he had intended, his sword flying out of his hand involuntarily. While he had not been expecting that to happen, the lich had been expecting it even less and the sword struck home heavily, the daedric steel ripping straight through the lich's body and causing damage that, even if it wasn't fatal, would be irreparable enough to disable any further attack that the lich might see fit to fling.

As the lich lay dying, Ayleid words formed on his ancient lips one final time, and magicka shot from his palm without warning, catching Turner full in the chest with enough force to fling him clear across the room. If he had been conscious to feel the impact, he might have noted the similarity to his single failed attempt at slaying vampires, asides the fact that this time he had actually managed to win first. He might also have noted the fact that Jena had been knocked clean off the walkway too, crashing the ten or so feet to the ground painfully in a last ditch attempt to save the Great Welkynd Stone from being smashed on the floor in a million pieces and with it, Tamriel's last hope.

Similarities aside, there was one rather large difference between this and the affair in Redwater Slough: this time there was no Altmer mage to save them.

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_Author Note: Sorry about the delay. The birthdays detailed in the first author note and the fact that I left my laptop charger at home made my writing VERY slow. I wrote about 90% of this yesterday... until about 1am. Fail. But to make up for it, I wrote you a long one which, personally, I quite like. 9,850-or-so words without author notes._

_There are no specific POVs, I only changed scene ONCE, I tried not to make people change emotion quickly (except Idari, but she doesn't count) and I tried not to let the end of the chapter drop off because I got bored. I'm rather pleased with my action scenes here (my emulation of a certain FF author's writing style finally appears to have paid off), and my description isn't as terrible as usual, isn't half bad perhaps._

_So, all in all, I personally rather enjoyed writing this chapter, so please please please please let me know what you think! :)_

_~ARTY~_


	36. Kvatch

_I apologise for the delay. I've been writing a play._

_You know it's been a good month when you look at your Story Traffic page and one of the hits bars read 1.37k (1.22k of those were on this story). I've been on this site over 2 years now and that's my best month so far. Thanks to everyone. Let's make February as good as January._

_**Some people out there are lovers, not fighters, so perhaps it's time to tell you that I'm a poet, not a writer :P**_

_**Quote: 'The further North you go, the colder it gets, the wetter it gets, and the more Northerners there are...' - A lecturer on moving to accommodation in university**_

_**Another Quote: 'HUZZAH! That was genius...' - my geography teacher (what a legend :P)**_

_

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Chapter 36

Idari Mortha opened her eyes slowly, blinking to get her hair out of her eyes, the cold stone floor pressed up against her left cheek. She sat up slowly, raising her right hand to her head to find her leather glove covered in deep crimson blood dripping from a wound to her face. She hadn't bled in a long while and this feeling was almost alien, one of pains and aches that came with losing.

But she was still alive, which meant that she couldn't have lost. No lich in their right mind would have left her alive.

As she moved her left arm a sharp pain shot down it, causing her to wince; she'd felt worse, but she hadn't been expecting this one. A quick inspection led her to suspect that she'd broken her left wrist when she'd fallen on it. She cursed her own stupidity; she should and could have won that battle easily.

Dragging herself to her feet she looked about the room, red eyes alert for any danger as they scanned precisely. Muttering a healing spell, she felt the pain in her wrist subside and the wound in her head close itself despite the fact that her brown hair was now matted across her face with the barely congealed blood covering it, though she merely pushed it away in irritation, streaking a thin layer of blood across her blue skin to make her look even more sinister than usual.

Her Akaviri katana was still in its sling across her back and her silver shortsword was a few feet away from where she had been lying, which was probably lucky as it could have easily impaled her if she'd fallen on it, though picking it up she noticed it was dented slightly on one side and she would have to get it fixed as soon as she could.

It was then that she remembered the other two.

Though her eyes searched through the darkness, it was a groan that alerted her to Jena's survival, and she found the Blade lying at the base of one of the three sets of stairs, the Great Welkynd Stone pressed tightly to her armoured chest, and her Blades armour dented in several places consistant with falling down the stairs.

"Where's Turner?" Idari demanded, crouching down at the Imperial's level while sweeping with her eyes for any visible wounds. "And what happned?"

Jena coughed violently, doubling over forwards from her sitting position before pushing the Great Welkynd Stone out of her lap onto the floor and fiddling with the bindings holding her shield to her right arm. It was so badly damaged now that it was of no use anyway. "Turner... defeated the lich," she tried to explain between coughs so violent that Idari was surprised that there wasn't any blood coming up with them. "But... the lich... hit him with... a spell I'd never... heard... and he... I don't know... he flew across the..." She trailed off, pointing in the general direction of where she was describing before fumbling about with her own pockets for a healing potion.

The Dark Elf looked in the direction that the Blade had pointed but saw nothing through the gloom. If Turner really had defeated the lich then she was rather impressed, but if he'd been hit by an Ayleid spell then there was definitely no guaranteeing that he was even still alive. And for a reason that Idari wasn't sure of, the thought of him being dead saddened her greatly.

She cast Night-Eye quickly and continued to scan the room for life until her eyes settled on a small black void in her vision which she ran to quickly. Turner lay face down in a pool of blood, shards of rubble embedded in his back and lacerations across his arms, tail and legs; his iron bow was twisted and mangled by its collision with the wall, and arrow shards covered him randomly. She almost ran to him, to check if he were alive, but instead she cast Detect Life to be sure.

A very faint purple glow radiated from him, though his breaths appeared erratic and uneven, which meant that he was at least living if only just. She approached now, not bothered by the blood for the first time in a while, probably because she was quite aware that she was still covered in her own, and that she knew he would die if she didn't do something.

Any potions that the Argonian had had with him would be smashed to smithereens by now, shards of glass probably sticking him through the leather of his armour in more places than Idari cared to think about. She checked for her own and unsurprisingly found herself in a similar situation, with only one bottle surviving, though with barely enough liquid in it to heal a papercut.

"Imperial!" she called back across the room, astounded by the concern in her voice that was usually reserved only for Reron and nobody else. "Do you have any healing potions?"

Footsteps approached behind her rapidly, at a speed slightly below that of a run, closely followed by the sound of a gasp. "By the Nine!" Jena exclaimed, a hand over her mouth in shock. "Is he still alive?"

Idari nodded, though in the darkness this action was probably fairly pointless. "Just. Do you have any healing potions?" she repeated, a tenderness there this time as though she were caring for a small child.

The Blade rummaged through her pockets. "I have two," she said, handing them to the Dunmeri assassin instinctively. "I don't think I fell as far as either of you. Is there anything I can help with?"

"Go back and pick up that Great Welkynd Stone," came the snappy reply, as a shuffling sound reached the Imperial's ears reminiscent of someone's pitiful attempt at shifting a body. "We came here for that accursed thing so we may as well bring it back. If he dies..." She tailed off. That was getting a bit _too_ attached for her liking.

Jena obeyed wordlessly, the only sound her armoured feet tapping against the grey stone floor as she trudged back to reacquire the stone that she had left behind. As soon as she was a safe distance away the Dark Elf crouched beside the fallen assassin. "Don't die on me, Pondscum," she whispered so quietly that he probably wouldn't have been able to hear her even if he had been conscious. She needed to get him to a healer if he were to stand any chance of being unaffected by all his wounds, but she would do her best to make sure he made it out of here alive. She owed him that.

She muttered a stream of Ayleid words to fix the superficial wounds, or at least the ones she could see. Even if she healed the rubble and the glass in place, it would get him out of here and to somebody who could fix that without letting him bleed out all over the floor and thus die of exsanguination. Then she moved him using magic, the only thing she could think to do considering she was far too small to lift him herself.

The damage was bad; frost burns covered the skin she could see through the rips in his shrouded armour, and prominent scars from wounds she had barely healed criss-crossed his torso dangerously close to his heart, blood dried across much of him, frozen there in others.

"Where's the nearest healer?" she demanded of the Blade. Her patience was wearing thin and a tone of irritation was creeping into her voice as she spoke.

A brief pause was followed by a brief answer. "Kvatch. If she survived the raid."

Idari nodded. She should have known that herself, considering she was fairly sure she had had a conversation about the best healer in all of Cyrodiil just after she had closed the Oblivion gate in Cheydinhal aided by the Count's idiotic son and his one brave minion. Oleta was widely expressed as being the best healer in all of Cyrodiil, perhaps all of Tamriel, _and_ she happened to be the closest. If the Dark Elf had believed in the gods, she would have said they smiled upon her right now. There was little else she could do herself unless Turner woke up.

"Let's go then," she said pointedly, crossing the room at a fast pace to where the Imperial woman stood nursing the Great Welkynd Stone to her chest once more. "I have to focus on keeping him alive-" She jerked a thumb over her shoulder to where she had suspended Turner's battered form using magic. "-So if we run into any trouble I want you to deal with it. Give me the stone." She extended her palm in expectation.

Jena was about to refuse her demand, suggest it was looked after by an operative of the Blades, a servant of the Empire, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the deadly passion dancing in the Dunmer's red eyes as if an Oblivion gate had opened inside of her. The look that said '_Cross me and I don't care who you work for, I _will_ kill you_' didn't help either. "He's lucky..." she said, gaze moving to Turner as she handed over the precious artifact. "He should be dead now."

"He's stupid," Idari snapped. "What was he thinking taking on a lich? He can barely cope with a skeleton!"

"If he hadn't done that we would all be dead by now!" The Blade instantly regretted her words the second they left her lips, and she winced slightly at the sound of them, despite how true they were.

Strangely though, the Dark Elf didn't seem to mind as she marched away up the stone stairs. "That's why we owe it to him to find him a healer before we return to Cloud Ruler Temple," she stated simply as she surveyed the corpse of the King of Miscarcand, torn apart by daedric steel without a doubt. Sufficed to say, Idari was quite impressed with his handiwork, however unorthodox it was. "What happened to his blade?"

The Imperial ascended the stairs cautiously and searched her memories. "I seem to recall him _throwing_ it at the lich, so I imagine it will be somewhere over there. Of course, it is hard to tell when an Argonian smashes into you and sends you tumbling down hard stone stairs while you try desperately to hold on to the only hope for your country."

Throwing it? Idari sighed with a small, weary smile. Truly that was something that only Turner could manage. Who else could kill a lich by _throwing_ a sword at him, probably by accident? That Argonian was either the luckiest failure Tamriel would ever know, or he had some seriously obscure method in his madness, though Idari suspected it was the former.

Jena's rough estimate proved to be more precise than she had imagined it would be, as Turner's daedric sword was imbedded in the base of the wall a little way beyond the corpse. It had passed a good three inches into the wall before it had stuck, and probably could have gone further if it had been thrown on purpose, considering that daedric steel was one of the toughest subtances on Nirn for the simple reason that it didn't originate on Nirn. It could probably cleave a diamond in two easily enough, though nobody had ever been willing to try it, for risk of losing either the precious diamond or the rarer steel just to prove a point.

Moving towards the tunnel to leave, the Imperial stopped in her tracks. "That opening wasn't there before," she said, gesturing towards the hollow in the wall that was just too short from her to walk through without bending down slightly. "It could be a quicker way out."

"It could also be a trap."

"Give me your shortsword." Jena held her hand out expectantly. A strange look from Idari prompted her to explain: "You said that the undead around here won't be hurt by any less than silver..."

"Take his sword..." The Dark Elf was also carrying the Argonian's sword using magic, since it was far too precious to leave behind and yet far too heavy for her to carry personally.

The Blade plucked it from the air and instantly regretted it as she almost toppled forwards under its weight. Using two hands she just about managed to hold it aloft, but it granted her such a small scope of movement that it would have been more useful to trip her enemies up than to fight them with it. "It's no good." She shook her head, resting the point of the sword on the ground and leaning on it heavily. "You'd have to be an Orc to lift that!"

Idari frowned, re-levitating it before she replied. "Turner lifts it perfectly fine."

"Yes, but he over-balances himself every time he swings it..."

The frown deepened. "Turner would over-balance wielding an ebony dagger. It has nothing to do with the weapon, it's to do with the fact that he's never had any training with any kind of weapon." An awkward silence. "You can't use my blade, it's damaged. Here." A few words in a daedric tongue conjured a sword from Oblivion that appeared in a scabbard on the Imperial's left hip, barely short enough to prevent itself from touching the ground even when she drew herself to her full height.

Jena drew the blade with her right hand before swapping to her left and testing it experimentally. "Why is this one so much lighter?"

"The magic that holds it in this plain just happens to make it lighter. Just because I'm a Dunmer does not make me an expert on everything to do with daedra," Idari growled in reply, folding her arms as the Great Welkynd Stone joined the ranks of the things she was levitating behind her. That statement was probably a lie, and she had a fairly good idea that what she had said was the truth. She didn't know about _all_ Dunmer, but she knew that in her family lack of knowledge on the daedra and their ways led to severe punishments that got more severe as her father lost more of his mind along with more of his children, one by one. "Do you always fight with your left hand?" Personally, Idari could use both, though she favoured her right. It wasn't really much of a question as she wasn't particularly interested in the answer; it was merely curiosity.

The Blade nodded slightly. "I always have. Personal preference. I have more control over it anyway." Without warning she ducked through the newly opened stone doorway and looked about, inadvertantly treading on a pressure pad that led to the grinding of stone on stone, causing her to leap backwards in fright, ready for battle as the smell of undead reached her nose through the opening.

"Does an ominous opening in the wall scream _trap_ to you yet?" Idari asked, voice dripping with lashings of sarcasm. Despite expending her magicka to maintain the spells she had placed on the objects she couldn't carry, she was still quite capable of fighting should it come down to it, though she was fairly sure a Blade of Jena's experience, despite one minor mistake earlier, would have no difficulty in dispatching whatever was left. Nonetheless, her silver shortsword, dents aside, sat prominently in its scabbard at her hip in case of emergencies while her katana was strapped across her back as usual, within easy reach lest something should go horribly wrong.

The stone doorway revealed another tunnel, populated by at least three zombies and little else, perhaps because it was untouched by the looters or the goblins who had fallen long before they had made it this far. The Imperial swung the daedric sword heavily, not expecting it to pass through the rotted flesh of the first zombie as cleanly as it did and taking out a hefty chunk of the passage wall as a result. She seemed impressed though, because the second zombie to approach her lasted only a matter of seconds before it too met a similar fate, a smile spread across the face of its killer as she exacted her revenge for the injuries to her pride that had been caused by the last one.

The passage branched before the first section came to an abrupt ending in the form of a wall that didn't look as though it was going to be sliding anywhere, and so Jena took off down the second passage at an alarming pace, leaving Idari to follow on slowly, apparently amused by this sudden turn of events and stepping over the corpses of zombies felled by the overzealous Blade, three more now littering the stone floor with a distinct lack of elegance, sheets of decomposing flesh torn from their rickety old bones to carpet the ground gruesomely.

The Blade in question had her arms folded at the top of a small set of stairs, a look of triumph on her face and her sword sheathed on her left hip despite how irritating that would make it if she needed to draw it quickly again. "Door," she said simply, jerking her right thumb over her shoulder. "Unnamed but..." She was cut off by a weary cough that very nearly induced a choking fit in a seriously injured Argonian, which instantly captured the attention of both women present.

It was little more than that though. Save for the groan of pain that follow it as the Telvanni shifted his position in the air behind her to make it easier for him to breathe.

"This better be the right door," Idari snapped, stalking over to it and reciting the correct words to cause it to slide open with painstakingly little speed.

The results were pitiful; a stone wall on three sides beginning about two feet in front of them, and a single raised stone on the floor. Jena shrugged, treading on the stone with apathy. "Whatever happens, I doubt anything more could possibly go wrong..." she muttered to herself before the rest of her words were drowned out by a cacophany of noises as the stone wall immediately in front of them slid away to reveal further passageway, a familiar smear of now semi-dried blood splatted across the ground beneath their feet. "... And there's the exit. It wasn't a trap after all," a smile tugged at the corner of the Imperial's lips before she remembered exactly why the already impatient Dunmer was in even more of a hurry than usual and the smile faded away before it had a chance to form.

It felt good to be outside again after what felt like hours, maybe even days. Perhaps it had been days; there was no way of knowing just how long they had all been out cold unless they asked somebody what day it was compared to what day they had left. The sun was rising and light flooded the forested area around the ruin, as if trying to make their current situation seem better. Idari said nothing, racing to Shadowmere over the pile of goblin corpses that seemed to be sinisterly undisturbed after all this time, their fire even still in the process of going out.

She whispered something to her horse, something she knew that he would understand and act upon better than any human ever could. "_Take Turner to Oleta_." Nobody would stand in the horse's way unless they severely lacked braincells and/or sanity, and Shadowmere was more than capable of finding Oleta on his own. She levitated the unconscious Argonian across the beast's saddle, securing him there using magic. "Be quick, and be _careful_." Then the horse ran on alone, taking the injured to their physician faster than any professional stretcher bearer could ever dream of.

Jena was petting Viatrix gently, reassuring her that she had returned after however long it had taken, when Idari marched up and roughly took ahold of Snowdrop's reins, fixing the animal in a glare that could have sent a shiver running down the spine of a flame atronach. The Blade opened her mouth to object, but then closed it again knowledgeably as she watched the Dark Elf leap fluidly into the saddle before levitating Turner's sword and the Great Welkynd Stone so that they lay across her knees.

"Shouldn't you take that to Jauffre?" Needless to say, the Imperial had not thought her words through very well, but she knew that, were she in the Hero's shoes, her duty to her country would definitely come before her duty to her comrades.

The glare whipped around, honing in on the one who had spoken the foolish words that Idari had for a moment imagined her ears had invented. "Without him we would have been killed by a lich," she snapped with such venom that the horse beneath her almost started. She was so used to Shadowmere by now that this animal seemed pathetic in comparison. "If you want to go back to Cloud Ruler Temple then so be it. You hold allegiance to Jauffre and to your Emperor, not to me or to him. I believe Turner's courage should be rewarded with the gift of life." There was a pause in her words, more for dramatic effect than for anything else, as Idari already knew exactly what she wanted to say. "If you feel you owe him nothing, then by all means leave, however your assignment was to return with the Great Welkynd Stone, which I still hold in my possession." She tapped it gently. "But after that, it's entirely up to you."

Jena watched as the Dark Elf dug her heels sharply into Snowdrop's sides, causing her to dash forwards at an alarming rate that the assassin evidently still found excruciatingly slow. The Imperial pondered the Hero's words carefully before following on, urging her animal onwards gently. While her brain told her to return to Jauffre, something in her heart made her stop and stay.

Turner had saved her life after all.

xxx

"The news of the return of Mannimarco is truly worrying," Hannibal Traven spoke calmly, despite the fear written behind the back of his eyes. "Against my will Caranya and Irlav have taken precious artifacts out of the University for safe keeping. You will have to retrieve them. Mannimarco will not breach these walls."

Seanturco folded his arms and looked about. The Council Chambers of the Arcane University looked almost empty today, and though the Council was only made up of five members the table in the room was deceptively large, perhaps in case important guild members were called to the meetings to discuss something that was pressing, or perhaps just for the sake of aesthetics. "Yes," he said, his Summerset Isle accent making his voice sound incredibly posh today. "But must I really go with _her_?"

"You must. Master-Wizard Polus and I are convinced that you and Miss gra-Yazgash will make a good team, once you learn to play to each other's strengths rather than highlight each other's weaknesses. I understand that you and she did a rather good job of removing the threat in the Bruma Mages Guild."

"We were too late. They were already dead. J'skar killed the necromancer; we did nothing."

Traven smiled. "On the contrary," he pointed out. "J'skar claims that you two saved his life. I have, of course, sent him to a safe location for now, while he recovers from his trauma, though he speaks very highly of the Altmer _and_ the Orc who saved him."

The High Elf tapped his foot on the floor in irritation. "But she and I have _nothing_ in common! No common goal, no common interest. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if she knows her fair share of necromancy!"

The Arch-Mage merely laughed. "She doesn't. After Falcar's betrayal we have taken to checking new recruits and current members carefully before admitting them to his place. On the matter at hand, you must retrieve the Necromancer's Amulet and the Bloodworm Helm. With the disappearance of Hromir's Ice-Staff from my own quarters, I was not involved in the Council meeting in which they stated to where they were running, however if you speak to Raminus, I am sure he will be able to tell you this information, and if not then speak with Tar-Meena - as University Archivist she probably keeps good notes on every meeting she attends."

"I bear a message from Grandmaster Jauffre," Seanturco said suddenly, changing the subject as he unfolded his arms and fishing the note from his robe pocket.

The Breton took it and read it as the Altmer looked about. He had always hoped that one day he would sit with the Council, but his current rank in the Guild was far too low at the moment; he may have been promoted to Wizard for his part in liberating the Bruma Mages Guild, but one had to be at least Master-Wizard in rank to sit on the council, and asides the five members who ranked among the Council of Wizards, there were two further Master-Wizards already in contention for the role. To Seanturco's knowledge, the current Council was made up of Hannibal Traven, Arch-Mage; Raminus Polus, University Steward; Caranya, in charge of University teachings; Irlav Jarol, Head of Ayleid Research; and Tar-Meena, University Archivist. However, there was always High Chancellor Ocato, who had given up the rank of Arch-Mage to Hannibal Traven in order to fulfil what he considered to be a higher purpose in the Elder Council, and Bothiel, in charge of the Imperial Orrery, who had also recently been promoted to the rank of Master-Wizard for her services to the Guild. Rush was a Conjurer, or so Traven had informed her upon their return, though she hadn't seem too fussed by this fact at all.

The Arch-Mage finally folded the letter neatly in half and set it down on the stable, turning his eyes to meet the wandering blue of the Wizard before him. "Of course we will send aid to Bruma," he said with a small smile. "A legion of battlemages. You will lead them."

Confusion swept the Altmer's face. "I am not a battlemage," he pointed out, unable to keep surprise from permeating into his voice. "I would be of no use to these battlemages. I fail to see the logic behind your decision."

"My logic is fairly simple," Traven stated, his eyes amused. "Your partner is one of the battlemages within the legion I intend to send, and you yourself are capable enough in destruction magic to be of some use to the Blades. They also know of you already, which saves the need for introductions on my part, and before you site objections, I shall inform you that my decision is final and without compromise, as is my decision on the battlemage to whom you are partnered. Go now, speak with Master-Wizard Polus, and then fetch those relics back with the utmost haste. I have nothing further to say on the subject."

xxx

The guards of Kvatch, having staved off an attack from Oblivion itself, had thought they had seen everything that life had to throw at them. That was until a purple tinged demon stallion came tearing up to the gates of their city - which was in the slow process of being rebuilt - with a rider who looked as though he had merely been fastened there with invisible bonds. The horse snorted when he reached the gate, and reared onto his hind legs, thumping against the wood with so much force that a couple of the guards could have sworn the entire structure of the walls of the battered city shook and heard the unmistakeable sound of wood splintering cleanly.

They admitted the creature without a second hesitation, afraid of what damage it could cause if they didn't. Perhaps it was a foolish move to allow an animal into their city that had enough raw potential to flatten the entire thing in minutes, or perhaps it had some kind of purpose that it was unable to convey in words.

It tore past them without even waiting for the doors to be fully opened, its red eyes blazing with some kind of magical energy that it seemed to be drawing power on for something they hoped wasn't too serious. It stormed to the home of Oleta directly without tarrying and stood outside, whinnying so loudly that the glass in the windows shook, threatening to shatter. The healer came out, groggy from having been woken up so rudely, took one look at the rider and gasped in shock, clasping a hand to her mouth before running back into her basic shack and returning swiftly with a thick brown leather-bound book, a bundle of scrolls and an armful of potions.

Flicking through the pages, she stopped on one and turned to the page before, scanning it quickly before reciting some ancient Ayleid words that caused her patient to be lifted from the horse's saddle, the beast calming down only at this point, and suspended in front of her so that she could examine his wounds.

He was an Argonian, a young one too, dressed in torn and dusty black leather armour, a hood covering most of his face, his scales green beneath the blood, an empty scabbard on his hip, a mangled bow and empty quiver over his shoulders. Oleta summoned a guard to her swiftly and said something which caused him to run away quickly, returning with an elderly looking Bosmeri mage, who the healer appeared to ask to maintain her telekinesis spell while she ran back into her house, bringing out a small iron dagger and a mortal and pestle, which she set down on the ground with the rest of her equipment.

She stood with the dagger in her hand and cut away the bow and the quiver, slicing through the soft leather and frayed bowstring easily, disguarding them to one side as she scrutinised further, looking at the partially healed wounds on his back and torso with a discerning expression on her face. It annoyed her slightly that whoever had cared enough to heal him had not thought it proper to at least seek the healer out themself, or had at least not had the decency to heal him properly. How had he acquired these wounds? She couldn't tell, but the frost burns on his chest suggested that he was struck with some kind of magical spell at some point or other during the point in which he had become injured.

Painstakingly the Redguard began to remove the scraps of rubble from the Argonian's body, cutting the skin around the visible bits just enough that she could get them out without killing him before quickly knitting the flesh back together with magic. It didn't matter the skill of the healer, if rubble or glass was left in the wound it would never truly heal.

Unbeknowst to the priestess, a Dunmer and an Imperial approached the city with a strange urgency, gaining admittance to the city as soon as the guards realised that one was a Blade and the other was the Hero of Kvatch and, despite her attitude, had saved them no matter which way you tried to spin it.

The Blade looked about the city with a sense of wonder at the destruction that the daedra had caused, shivers running down her spine as she focused in on parts that had not yet been rebuilt, the useless piles of burnt timber that had once been the homes of so many people who were no longer residents of Nirn.

The Dark Elf, the Hero of Kvatch, walked to the healer swiftly, ignoring the city and its current state. She had seen it before, when the fires were stilling burning and the daedra were still attacking, when the streets were stained with innocent blood and littered with ravaged corpses of people who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oleta was absorbed in her work and didn't look up, however the assassin managed to easily capture the almost undivided attention of the Bosmeri mage without even trying to. She was not in the mood for talking.

"You're the Hero of Kvatch!" the mage stuttered out, her aging voice quivering with excitement. Despite being a Wood Elf, she was slightly taller than the Dunmer she spoke to, her body was noticeably curvy beneath her loose mage's robes; her face was lined about her eyes, which shone with wisdom and admiration but had a certain depth of loss and sadness to them, a shimmering gold to match her creamy yellow skin, her silver hair wrapped tightly into a bun, held in place with a scrap of string wound around it.

The reply was sarcastic, and accompanied by a fierce glare from a pair of glowing red eyes: "Your observation skills astound me."

Oleta looked up from her work momentarily; she was thin, terrifyingly thin, and about average height for a Redguard, giving her an awkward, lanky appearance. Her thin face was framed by greying hair that hung limply to her shoulders, creases in her skin from age and stress, and eyes that had lost their sparkle the day her home had fallen. She frowned. "Thank you for saving our city," she said softly, looking back to her patient to remove another shard of glass. "I don't know how Kvatch will ever truly repay you..."

The Hero's glare softened. "Save him and you won't need to," she whispered, sounding genuinely sad at this prospect. This didn't at all fit in with the stories that the pair had heard of this mysterious Dunmer; from what they knew, the Hero of Kvatch cared for no-one and nothing, yet here she was, helping an Argonian who was probably of little importance in the scheme of things.

"What happened to him? The healing process will be much quicker if I know what I'm dealing with," the Redguard pointed out, gesturing to the frost etching across his green scales as a rather large chunk of rubble fell into her hand.

The Dark Elf sighed. "He was hit by an Ayleid spell cast by a very powerful lich. That he is alive at all is a pure coincidence. How long..." she paused, considering the question she had been about to ask. "How long do you think it will be before he is better?"

Oleta thought for a moment, looking at him closely, her face creasing up slightly. "A few hours to heal him. A couple of days for him to regain consciousness. I couldn't tell you how long it would be until he was returned to full health, it depends upon his own resilience. He must be a strong one to have survived a blow like that... Most people are killed by even the most basic of lich magic, so to survive a spell with that much force behind it is truly a feat worth mentioning. He must mean a lot to you..."

"Don't you _dare_ insinuate there is anything between me and him!" the Hero snapped viciously, her hand travelling to the hilt of her dented sword instinctively. "He is a comrade, nothing more! You're lucky I need you alive, or I would gut you where you stand." It was an empty threat, she wouldn't have killed anyone within such clear view of the guards unless she had a contract to do so, but that didn't stop it sounding incredibly menacing. "Any relationship between me and him would be repulsive and morally _wrong_. He has proven his usefulness; that is all you need know." She turned and stalked away. "I will return for him in a week's time. If he dies I will have your head. That is not an exaggeration."

And with that she snapped a derogatory nickname over to the Blade, who jumped at the sound and stepped away from the Chapel of Akatosh upon which she had been inspecting the damage done by the daedra and jogged to keep up, not appearing to comment on the use of the name. The purple stallion followed the Dunmer loyally, and she stroked his mane with a strange subdued affection, the horse snorting softly in reply like some unspoken language between them. They left, and if it weren't for the Argonian patient being worked on by Cyrodiil's best healer it would have easily been assumed that they had never arrived in the city at all.

Kvatch would remember their saviour for all time, despite her attitude towards their city and their lives. They didn't know her name - indeed they never would - but in their own ways, every single citizen in Kvatch appreciated what she had done for them. She was there in their dreams, in their nightmares when they relived the horrifying events that they had experienced; she was there in their thoughts when they looked over at the piles of carbonised timber and realised sincerely that the only reason they were looking at anything at all was her.

So many had died, but so many had survived. Kvatch alone was the undeniable proof of one resounding fact: there was still hope.

* * *

_Author Note: I don't personally like this chapter very much. Nothing interesting happens. It's just a filler. You might encounter a few fillers in the near future, because I don't really want it to end... It's been good, has this story. I've reached the conclusion that Turner's astonishing luck is probably going to run out some day; this DOES NOT mean I will definitely be killing him, but I've considered it. He has at least one near-death experience (yes, I have only planned one more chapter out of the rest of them, and that is one event I KNOW is going to happen) still to come. I want him to be there for the Battle of Bruma (whether he survives or not is a different matter). Have you noticed that my characters are all gathering for the Battle of Bruma? Septimus Serocold (that random guard who keeps popping up), Farwil and Bremman, Seanturco and Rush, Idari and Turner, all the Blades, the Fighters Guild (including my Fighter OC, who I have yet to even think about creating). It should be an interesting chapter to write._

_Now, to explain the thing about the play I mentioned at the top. Since I am the only 'writer' in my house, I was drafted to write the House Play. It took up a lot of time. It had a deadline. I had to put this to one side (yet again, I wrote this at 1am). Snow White and the Seven Stereotypes. It's a mock-up. It's deliberately tacky. It led to a 13 year old writing 'I love trees' on my arm in permanent marker, which is still there now. It led to me being involved in casting and auditions (I have got a part myself. This is all good). It led to me being VERY busy. And next half term I will be putting it on, so if I disappear off the face of the planet, I'm not dead, I'm producing MY play. I thought this achievement was worth mentioning. Other than that, a poem of mine is on FictionPress - I told you I was a poet. I'm NOT a writer. I've always written, but I'm always better at poetry. It's called Mourning. Look it up if you're interested - under the penname Arty Thrip - obviously._

_Yet again, I took my lead from DualKatanas. It seems whenever he updates, I get around to sitting down and writing this thing properly. I think I wrote most of this since the last chapter of BaS... The results however, could use some work. Perhaps this plan wasn't very well thought through... :P_

_Please leave a review. You've come this far by reading the chapter. I didn't get very many reviews last chapter, and to be honest, it dented my confidence in writing this story. I WILL put this to one side if I don't get reviews. This is not an empty threat. I'm busy enough without taking time out to write this._


	37. The Necromancer's Amulet

_(13/2/11) Dear, honoured, loved readers, today I decided whom I am to kill in the Battle for Bruma and the Battle for the Imperial City (you didn't think I'd kill 'em all in one go did ya?). Many of you, were you to be in control of this knowledge, would probably never speak to me again. I offer a prize of pride and a virtual cookie (and the dedication of the entire story) to whomever tells me which OCs I leave alive at the end of this story before the events take place. You might be surprised. Here are your clues: four OCs survive; think outside the box - I have ten OCs in this story, nine of whom will see battle, and nine of whom (a different nine) have already been introduced (or mentioned by name); I did not take the votes for survivors into account - many people will be upset by my decisions; main OCs do NOT have immunity to death, they just might not die until after they have fulfilled their purpose. The Hero of Kvatch is NOT the main character. The main character may still die. Voting closes after chapter 45 (Yes, I have planned that far). Winners (if any) announced in AN of the last chapter._

_Also, BiA has overtaken TEOTW on the number of favourite lists it graces. This is good. I prefer this story anyway. The literal year between the posting of the chapters of TEOTW is always a sign I don't like it anymore. I also broke 7000 hits. Good milestone, that. Oh, and 200k words. Nice, though most of those are author notes XD_

_TEN REVIEWS LAST CHAPTER! (Technically eleven... If you count SneakyDevil, who PM-ed me instead) That makes last chapter the BEST ONE SO FAR. Brilliant. Love to all who reviewed; I hope I don't have to threaten a writing strike again :P_

_Dedicated to Idledreamcatcher... Did she mention she loves Seanturco?_

_

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Chapter 37

Master-Wizard Raminus Polus considered the question of the mage before him carefully, straightening a crease in his blue robes with one hand. "To my knowledge, Caranya decided to travel to Fort Ontus with the Necromancer's Amulet, a powerful relic of Mannimarco's, while Irlav Jarol took off in the direction of Fort Teleman with the Bloodworm Helm. I wish I could offer you more details." He rubbed his chin for a moment. "My suggestion is to speak with Tar-Meena about these forts. Her documentation skills are almost legendary. If not, speak with Phintias in The First Edition in the Market District - he always keeps maps in stock."

Though Seanturco frowned at the prospect of venturing back into the Market District he had to admit that it was probably the best course of action. Besides, nobody knew what had really happened to Calindil, nobody but him. He nodded and left the Tower Lobby, walking swiftly to the Mystic Archives past two scholars speaking of nonsensical things like a thesis on runestones, and two male apprentices who, by contrast, appeared to be talking about that female scholar over there... Seanturco was tempted to turn and see who they were talking about, but he had already reached his destination.

He had been to the Mystic Archives on a few occasions, searching for books or scrolls amongst the massive collection that Tar-Meena kept here. There were hundreds of books here, maybe more, and the University Archivist seemed to be able to keep the undocumentable piles documented precisely without losing her mind and becoming a blithering idiot with serious Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That was why she sat on the Council of Mages.

The Archives were almost empty today, save for a Breton apprentice who was perched on the edge of a wooden chair, brushing her sandy hair out of her eyes on occasion as she poured over a book on the Art of War Magic. She was muttering to herself on occasion, as if making mental notes in her head. Seanturco thought it best to ignore her and looked around instead for the Master-Wizard, who seemed to be standing behind a pile of books that was almost as tall as she was, running a finger along a shelf that was so crammed with books that one couldn't even fit a nail between them.

"I suppose you wanted something..." Tar-Meena said, not turning around. Her voice was coarse and gravelly but with an underlying and unmistaken tone of extreme wisdom that only came from many years reading many books. Seanturco wouldn't have been surprised if she had read every book in these Archives at least once.

"Raminus Polus told me you might have a map, or at least some personal knowledge, that would help me locate Fort Ontus or Fort Teleman."

The Argonian shook her head and emerged from her domain, stepping over a smaller pile of books to stand before him. "And I suppose Traven wants you to intercept Caranya and Irlav Jarol? If Traven had shown a little authority then they wouldn't need to be intercepted now. Honestly, I don't know what they were thinking promoting..." She stopped and chuckled. "But you didn't come here to talk about Traven's blatant incompetance." She glanced over the Altmer's shoulder to where the Breton apprentice appeared to have stopped reading, an action which caused the girl to hastily turn a page and try to look as though she were reading. "Girl, Traven already knows my views of his methods," Tar-Meena pointed out nonchalently. "Fort Ontus, you might find, is north of Kvatch, and Fort Teleman, to my knowledge, is somewhere near to Leyawiin, in the Blackwood region. Hang on a moment," she disappeared back behind the stacks of books. "I'll find you a map."

The Archivist stepped into an area that was almost completely shrouded in books; suddenly a stack lifted up by a few inches and a scaled hand reached out, snatching the document from between them as the pile returned to normal, swaying slightly due to the sheer height and volume of the books.

She didn't even open the paper, she just presented it to the Altmer with a small nod. "This map will show you to all the fort locations in Cyrodiil, and a few on the Cyrodiil-Morrowind border. The University does have extra copies, but will not be providing you with another, so I can only reinforce the need for due care and attention." A strange grin crossed her reptilian features. "Good luck completing Traven's work. Remember: trust no-one. Traven checks for necromancers _now_, but he never checked existing members, did he?" Tar-Meena pulled the wooden door open smoothly and ushered him out, the hinges creaking slightly and emitting a highly unpleasant sound that she seemed to ignore. "Stay vigilant, High Elf. Even Traven's most trusted are capable of betrayal."

She slammed the door with perhaps more force than was necessary, leaving Seanturco strangely alone in the courtyard now that most of the other mages appeared to have left, perhaps for lunch or to their private research. The small Breton mage appeared from the Mystic Archives after him, and pushed her sandy hair out of her face once more as she scurried past him clutching three thick leather-bound books, travelling into the training room with unnecessary speed.

If Seanturco didn't know any better, he would have said that all of the mages seemed to know of his stint as a vampire and were avoiding him accordingly, despite the fact that he was cured and there was nothing left of the disease to cause them any harm. Still, he didn't really care what they thought of him, not any more. Before he had been a vampire he might have cared, he might have had some self-respect when it came to befriending and aiding assassins, he might never have been prepared to kill someone, but now? Now he was not half as bad as he was before.

It was strangely liberating being a vampire.

xxx

Despite Shadowmere's restlessness, the progress the pair of women made was horrifically slow. Neither of them were particularly interested in getting to where they were headed, even though duty called them both and tugged at them with iron chains that it had secured around their very souls. The conversation was so sparse between them that it almost seemed not to exist, as though they weren't really riding together at all, but entirely seperate entities who just happened to be moving in the same direction. In truth, Turner had been the glue that held them together, and now they had nothing in common... Nothing but duty.

The Gold Road met the Red Ring Road at a three directional fork, one leading south to Bravil and Leyawiin, one leading north to Chorrol and the Imperial City, and the third leading westwards to Skingrad, Kvatch and Anvil. They travelled northwards, obviously, but they didn't get far before the eerie silence that surrounded them was finally broken.

"I'm not going back to Cloud Ruler with you." No explanation followed, and the silence relapsed for almost five minutes before a reply was formed.

"Where are you going?"

"To keep busy somewhere I'm not called upon to be a hero every five minutes." Idari's lips curled into a slight smirk which twisted into a distinct sneer the more she thought on this notion. "I'll return in two weeks. That will give Martin more than long enough to figure out the last ingredient for this ritual of his."

Jena frowned deeply. "What about the Great Welkynd Stone?"

"You'll take it, of course." A simple answer for a simple question. "Besides, Grandmaster Jauffre trusts you far more than he trusts me. A blind man could see that." She stopped talking and held the stone out to the Blade, but when the Imperial failed to take it she continued. "Take it already," she demanded, her accent sounding slightly thicker than she usually allowed it to be. "It's already caused more trouble than it's worth."

The other woman took it hesitantly, looking at it strangely. "What will you do?" she asked in a low voice, her eyes averted away from the Dunmer instinctively.

"If you already know my profession, then you'll understand that if I told you that, I would have to kill you. If not, then sleep soundly in the knowledge that you have no idea what is going on in my life. Perhaps it would be better that way."

"For what it's worth," Jena began before trailing off suddenly. Then she appeared to decide that she would actually continue that thought. "From experience, I believe Jauffre's distrust of you is misplaced."

Idari looked like she had been hit in the face by a cliffracer for a split second, the surprise causing her to do a full double take, then she recovered and chuckled quietly. "Then you are rather stupid," she said sincerely, though she didn't sound quite like she wanted to believe this fact. She sounded like she wanted to continue but said nothing further until she bade farewell to Jena and allowed Shadowmere to release his pent up energy with an almost unimaginable burst of speed that put distance between them instantly.

The Blade looked down at the stone she had been given and sighed heavily. The Hero had been right, it had been more trouble to retrieve than it was worth, and Jauffre would probably complain no end about their lack of time keeping, especially when she returned alone. She pushed Viatrix to move just a little faster and looked up to see that the Dark Elf had already disappeared beyond the visible horizon.

Her words had been true though. In the past couple of days her perception of the Hero had changed quite drastically, especially in the wake of the injury of Turner. Jauffre wouldn't believe her though; she wouldn't have been sent on this mission at all if the Grandmaster hadn't thought her slightly useless. He'd succeeded in changing her view on life, if nothing else.

xxx

"This horse ain't gonna make it up that hill," Rush stated, pointing an armoured finger at the steep hill in front of them. The old nag had barely made it this far, and any further would probably kill it.

Seanturco looked up at the peak in question and then back at his partner. "You'll have to walk then," he shrugged. "Fort Ontus is up there. Right at the top."

"Your horse ain't gonna make it either," she told him with a wry grin as she dismounted the frail beast and tied it to a nearby tree. "You'd need a demon horse to make it up there."

The High Elf frowned, but generally accepted her statement as true, climbing from his chestnut mare and binding her securely to the same tree. It was funny that the battlemage should mention a demon horse... He could just imagine the Hero of Kvatch powering up this hill with delightful ease on the back of her sleek slightly purple black stallion with burning red eyes and an attitude to match.

The pair started up the steep hill together. Granted, the progress was slower than it would have been if they had been riding, but this way was apparently safer. Apparently, Seanturco felt, was the operative word. Grassy ridges gave way to steep rubble-covered slopes and the Altmer had a horrid tendency of losing his footing, to the extent that the battlemage forced him to walk in front of her to make sure that, if the liking event were to occur, she was in a viable position to catch hold of him before he slid down the entire hill and lost the majority of the skin on his body to those sharp rocks.

Eventually though the grass returned and the slope grew less perilous, and mandrake plants became increasingly common. Above anything the pair dreaded the descent. Trust Caranya to choose a stupid location in the middle of nowhere.

Rush cracked her knuckles loudly as they stood outside the fort, leaning against the white-washed walls with distinctive apathy. She hadn't had any difficulty climbing the slope, her armoured boots apparently having enough grip and her balance apparently being sufficient to stop her from sliding around like an ogre on an ice-rink.

"So I hear you were complaining to Traven again," she said, a smirk pulling at her green lips to reveal large off-white teeth. "It ain't gonna work. The only way either of us would get a new partner is if one of us died. Raminus told me that before you even came back."

"Spare me your words, Orc," Seanturco snapped back. His embarrassment on the slope was enough to put him in a foul mood, despite having to make conversation with somebody he had no particular obligation to get to know. "This is a ridiculous assignment that could have been given to an _Associate_, let alone a Wizard. Let's get this over with."

xxx

One would think that the Imperial City was the perfect place for a budding thief or a budding assassin to make their mark on society. It was big, and full of people, and the alleyways there were dark and secluded, and the houses had little rooms that were unused and perfect hiding places. However it was not to be. The Imperial City was a difficult place for assassins and thieves due to the increased numbers of guards there; the palace guards were lethal, usually, and the guard captains were brutal in their punishments, sentencing many to rot in the Imperial Prison, or simply to be executed.

Idari Mortha knew this all too well.

Adamus Phillida had arrested her long ago, sentenced her to die for her sins, but his plan had been foiled by the Blades, the Emperor, and Fate. Now he was dead, but there were others in his place, and it didn't pay to grow complacent.

She was only here to pick up her contract anyway.

The Thieves Guild seemed to be coping well without her. She had read of their escapades frequently in the Black Horse Courier, or she had heard rumours. The most recent news had been about the theft of a valuable staff from the Arcane University, but that had been found in the home of one Ontus Vanin and returned, and current rumours claimed that Hieronymus Lex was soon to be reassigned to Anvil. All the thieves in the Guild knew that Lex was the biggest thorn in the Grey Fox's side. Having him gone would help them a lot.

As such, Idari felt no obligation to drop in on the Guild, no reason to go near the Waterfront presented itself, and she slipped into the Market District almost entirely unnoticed. She might have been dressed as your archetypal assassin in jet black armour carrying more than one weapon, but this sort of armour was exceedingly commonplace somewhere as big and diverse as the Imperial City, and after the first few slip-ups the guards there had become inclined to look the other way unless they saw somebody actually commit a crime, or it was reported by a witness. That way was much safer.

The Dark Elf slipped behind Stonewall Shields and looked around to check that she hadn't been seen before double-checking the contract she had been given on Alval Uvani's life, her eyes instantly fixing on the tree stump the instructions were pointing her to. It was hollow, as the contract said, but the covering was so crude that anybody could have found her contract and award for themselves if they had happened to look the right way at the right time.

The money she removed and stuffed into a pocket, spiriting it away for a later date, but the paper she picked up and inspected closely, reading the details on her next target - a Nord living high on a mountaintop. Apparently he had slain the chief of a meadhall and now the chief's sister sought his life, which was a simple enough concept for Idari to understand, being so close to her own brother and having experienced the pain that came with losing a brother. She would locate this Nord quickly and make him pay for his mistakes, but first she had every intention of repairing her shortsword and intended to use her newfound reward to pay for it.

She slipped back out of the small courtyard quickly and managed to blend into the crowd with striking ease despite her ostentatious attire. It was ironic, she thought, that people could be arrested for picking up _forks_, and yet the guards allowed people who were obviously your stereotypical assassin stroll past them unhindered. Ironic but extremely advantageous.

Now all she had to do was get her sword fixed and head out for some mountaineering. And as a time filling activity, it couldn't sound any more appealing.

xxx

Upon entering Fort Ontus, Seanturco and Rush were met by a young looking Imperial mage who was reading a book with a title that neither of them could see, his feet kicked up on the table in front of him while with his right hand he appeared to be drawing some sort of rune on a piece of parchment. He looked up, eyed the unlikely pair incredulously, and then scoffed.

"Go speak to Caranya," he said, pointing his quill in the general direction of the passageway they were supposed to follow before he returned to his sketching and reading as if they had never been there at all. Seanturco couldn't help but wonder exactly who this Imperial had befriended to be allowed into the University as he took note of the mage's loose, mud-stained robes, and the obvious lack of pride in his appearance, then he looked back at Rush and all these thoughts were stopped in their tracks.

It didn't matter what she wore really, she was still an Orc so he would continue to judge her. He couldn't help it. It was just the way he was. Perhaps things would have been different if he had met her before he had changed into a vampire, and indeed he probably had and had probably dismissed the thought of her as soon as it formed since their paths would never cross... He thought. Still, if ten years ago people had told him that he would one day be spending time as a vampire he would have advised them to seek help from a physician, which just went to show the unpredictability of life.

And it was time he learnt to take nothing for granted.

Rush kept vigilant; in a situation even such as this one, letting one's guard slip could prove fatal, and if she was to protect the two of them then she had to pay extra attention. They passed a group of three or four mages doing something questionable, though try as she may Rush couldn't quite make out what it was, besides, her attention was drawn elsewhere when the Wizard in her care almost stepped right into the path of an ancient darts trap that could easily make him resemble a bloody lump of swiss cheese in seconds. He only had grumbles about her methods of protecting him, which involved picking him up and carrying him several feet across the room _before_ lecturing him about the dangers, but she knew that he would appreciate it one day. His approval didn't matter to her anyway.

Around the corner, more tunnels, more mages, more secretive looking projects. They paused to ask a woman for directions, an Altmer who stood shorter than both of them, her green robes pulled in tightly at her waist with a cord of robe as if to accentuate her slim figure, her golden brown hair loose to her shoulderblades. She was definitely a young one as well, maybe as young as Seanturco - who by High Elven standards was still verging upon childhood - but even he had a air of wisdom about him that she seemed to lack completely.

"Where's Caranya?" Rush grunted at her impatiently. Seanturco scoffed at her lack of tact.

The Altmer smiled, but while the expression was one of warmth there was a certain feeling of coldness that came with it, completely ignored by the Wizard, but easily picked up by the humble battlemage beside him. "Keep following this passage," she said simply, her eyes locked on those of a certain ex-vampire. "It is good of you to join us," she continued, nodding slightly as she spoke, her features lighting up, but again a sinister air behind them. Again Seanturco missed it entirely. She laughed, a sweet sound. "I should get back to my studies, Magister."

The apprentice turned and walked away, a smile fixed on her face. This time it was Rush who scoffed. "She doesn't actually like you. She's flirting with you because you're higher up in the guild than her and she thinks you can secure her advancement. That's probably why she followed Caranya all the way out here."

"Not everyone is that horrifically shallow."

"Not everyone is that obviously a necromancer." A grin accompanied this sentence, but the Orc pushed open a wooden door before Seanturco had an opportunity to reply.

"What do you mean?" he asked after a pause, running up to walk level with her.

Rush gave him a simple reply: "They're all necromancers. Everyone in this fort... Well, all the apprentices we've seen so far. You can tell, they reek of death and they all have a horrible shifty look about them. Only the clever ones cover it up properly..." She shrugged and fell silent and they walked past yet another small group of apprentices, three Breton women who looked similar enough to be sisters.

The Altmer gave them a scrutinising look and tried to sniff the air as subtlely as he could manage, something which only caused the battlemage to laugh. "Trust me," she whispered. "These guys have next to no training. The undead they summoned would either fall apart on contact with Nirn or turn on them and rip them up..."

"And how would _you_ know so much about necromancy?"

The Orc just smiled into the darkness when she heard his blatant accusation. "If I was a necromancer you'd know about it. I'm not one for subtlety."

"I'd noticed."

"And neither, it seems, are you."

She chuckled to herself as the corridor began to flood with light coming from three rusty iron gates leading to a large chamber that was both well lit and high-ceilinged. Separately both Seanturco and Rush reached the conclusion that this was likely the only place were Caranya would see fit to place herself, and they were both separately thinking of a way to reach her that didn't involve any more snaking passages when one of the Breton women came over and tugged gently on the Wizard's light blue sleeve.

"Have you come to speak to Caranya?" she asked, the expression on her face one of almost terrifying joy. "If you can fly..." she began, the creepy expression coming across in her words too. "Then you can jump... down... through the gate." She placed a thin hand on one of the locked gates and muttered a spell to unlock it, pushing it open with one fluid movement.

"Thank you," Seanturco replied with forced politeness. It seemed as if at least some of Rush's words had reached him, because he shied away from the mage's touch instinctively. If all the mages here were necromancers then Caranya probably was too, which led him to wonder exactly why Traven had never picked up on this, despite his claims to have thoroughly checked the members of his guild.

It wasn't a long drop, actually, perhaps seven feet or so, but beneath them was a large stone statue of something that looked suspiciously like a Reman Emperor and two altars upon which lay two heavily decayed corpses. Proof enough. One of Traven's most trusted Master-Wizards was a necromancer.

Seanturco considered turning back when this dawned on him. He was in a fort filled with necromancers, with only a battlemage to help him on a seemingly lost cause to retrieve an amulet that had probably been given to Mannimarco already. Rush however seemed to have other plans, and she jumped across onto a ledge before dropping to the floor, the clanking of her armour drawing Caranya's undivided attention.

Funnily enough, despite the current situation, Caranya still looked nothing like a necromancer. She still wore a blue dress with a golden trim and golden embellishments, she still wore her dark brown hair back in a loose bun. She still wore that slightly disturbing smile as well. Never a good sign.

Seanturco followed the battlemage unwillingly, hopping across the small gap while trying to avoid a bout of something between nausea and vertigo before dropping down to the stone ground slightly to the left of his partner.

"Traven's lap-dog?" the blatant necromancer exclaimed in surprise. "This is quite a surprise. I am glad you have finally seen the light..."

"Don't kid yourself Caranya," Rush replied gruffly. She flexed her fingers instinctively in an attempt to control her intense desire to draw her claymore and gut the High Elf where she stood.

Seanturco frowned, and took a step backwards, his back pressed up against the wall. It was times like these when he wished he was still a vampire with his super strength and super speed, though this thought disturbed him slightly and he pushed it to the back of his mind. "We've come for the Necromancer's Amulet..." he said quietly, somewhat regretting the words as they left his mouth.

The Master-Wizard's face contorted with a mixture of sadness and anger. A hint of surprise was there too, but she should have been expecting this to happen. "I'm afraid you're in over your heads," she said as calmly as she could manage. "I don't answer to Traven anymore. He's a blundering fool. When I give this to Mannimarco his power will be increased and Hannibal Traven will be helpless to stop him. Such a shame it had to end this way... but my students will find your corpses most useful in their studies."

In the time it took Caranya to fire a powerful spell at the pair, Rush had already drawn her sword and was crossing the ground between them, avoiding the spell by simply stepping aside. Yet again Seanturco found himself wishing her were a vampire, as he ducked to one side of the spell, which hit the wall only mere centimetres from the side of his head. He turned around the find himself faced with a necromancer from the Master-Wizard's posse who had been listening in on their conversation.

The 'mage' in front of him was a middle-aged looking Imperial with a hideous snarl and what looked like a recently broken nose. A dagger was clasped in his hand, but he was obviously trying to raise one of the corpses on the altars instead of using it; Seanturco took the pause to his advantage and sent a powerful bolt of electricity ricocheting through the necromancer, who's body contorted in pain and fell to the ground, still twitching as the electricity stimulated involuntary nerve impulses through his muscles. The Altmer's nose wrinkled up at the sight of the corpse and he picked up the knife, knowing his magicka reserves would eventually run out. He had killed with a dagger before. At least _this_ time would be self-defense.

He was standing still when in his peripheral vision he saw one of the disintegrated corpses lumbering towards him, one of its arms dangerously close to falling off while its jaw had been clear torn away, leaving a gaping gap in its already terrifying face. His blue eyes darted about for a sign of the person who was reanimating the corpse, noting that Rush and Caranya still seemed to be locked in some kind of battle, like 'who-can-cast-the-most-spells-before-the-other-dies?'. In order to keep the corpse busy, Seanturco summoned a daedra from Oblivion - he wasn't being specific as to which one, so it was simply whichever appeared first - which appeared to be some kind of dremora, who ran at the zombie keenly.

With the immediate threat somewhat toned down, his blue eyes began searching the area again, and he saw nothing until he looked up at the gate that he and Rush had come through at first. One of the Breton women stood there, magic swirling at her fingertips as she maintained the spell; it wasn't the woman who had spoken to them before, but an older woman with her hair streaked visibly with grey. He cast a spell at her but it bounced harmlessly off of her shield spell as a fireball began to fly towards him from a different gate, so evidently the three of them were going to gang up on him - how simply brilliant! Ducking under the poorly aimed fireball, he sent a bolt of electricity back at the woman who had thrown a spell at him and it broke through her weak shielding easily, knocking her over like a target on a firing range.

There was a pillar of stone in the centre of the room, which he used to easily avoid the barrage of spells that immediately followed the death of their comrade and the tug on his magicka supply ended as the dremora decided upon an inopportune moment to return to its homeland, the zombie battered but apparently still complete enough to continue to drag itself across the floor, a leg hanging by a thread and its chest torn to ribbons, unhealthy green flesh standing away from decaying yellow bones. The Wizard threw fire at it, and the flames engulfed the already dead figure with almost unnatural rapidity; it thrashed about for a few seconds before falling limp as Seanturco heard a string of unsavoury curses follow from the two surviving Bretons as their main weapon was vanquished.

Then there was a pause. Silence, asides for Rush and Caranya. The Altmer found himself wondering how those two were still at it; the two he had killed so far had gone down easily, never to get back up. He couldn't even see them properly, not between the stone pillars and strange necromancer memorabilia that meant nothing to him.

All of a sudden magicka surrounded him, tearing through the air like paper, electricity rippling around both sides of the column, and he found himself cowering instinctively. Oh, if the Hero of Kvatch could see him now... He perished the thought; she would tear him apart for merely thinking of escaping.

A cry followed, a female cry. It sounded like an Altmer and was followed by gurgling and retching, the sound of a blade being removed from a body, a soft wet thud as a body hit the ground. Seanturco was about to go and see what had happened now that the magicka was dissipated when he found himself faced with the same Imperial man he had killed, walking with lumbering footsteps, eyes dead and pale. Looking down at the tiny and somewhat insufficient knife in his hand he gulped and took a step backwards, only to have electricity rip past mere inches from his skin to the extent that he could feel its power emanating into him.

He was stuck between a rock and a hard place... Albeit, an already dead, murderous rock being controlled by a necromancer and a rather painful electrical hard place, but a rock and a hard place nonetheless.

He sent magic through the corpse, but it had little effect save for throwing him off pace slightly. He could almost feel the evil sneer of the necromancer despite the fact that he couldn't see her, he could almost smell his own fear.

And he wished he was a vampire.

It was a sad, terrific fact that faced with death he would want to be what he most despised again. At least, if he were a vampire, he could run fast enough to get away. At least, if he were a vampire, he wouldn't be vulnerable to all the weapons the necromancers had. At least, if he were a vampire, he would have a friend again; a friend to see him through thick and thin, through high and low, through life and through death. Turner had been prepared to die for his friend, and despite being an assassin, Seanturco missed him now more than ever.

The Altmer shut his eyes. This was going to be painful, and he had no desire the drag the torture out by watching himself be torn apart. He didn't particularly want the last thing he ever saw to be the dead face of an Imperial necromancer that he'd killed either, but he couldn't have everything, could he?

Two zaps. Three thuds. A tap on the shoulder. These events were just enough to make him jump clean out of his skin.

Rush only laughed at his reaction. "Don't be such a defeatist," she smirked, raising a gauntleted hand to reveal an amulet with a large blue stone set into it and skulls engraved into its surface. "I thought you would have been fine on your own..." She mocked him openly, taking advantage of his slightly disorientated state to insert her own snide remarks.

And at the precise moment, Seanturco loved her so much that he hated her guts.

"Let's get out of here, Wiz-errd." She pronounced it stupidly, sounding like an idiot in the process. That was the point though. Right now she could tell him that Mehrunes Dagon was a giant pink fluffy bunny bearing happiness to the world and he would believe her without question.

He shook slightly at the comprehension that he was still alive. Blue eyes found the Imperial man, dead once more, saw the body of a Breton woman bleeding heavily on a stone altar, the ledge beneath her apparently having collapsed, toppling her to the floor, noticed Caranya, blood pooling around her. A blade had entered her upper torso at an upward angle, and then been whipped upwards, slicing through flesh, bone and sinew, the magic of the enchantment turning the inside of her chest to liquid. The sight would have made Seanturco want to vomit.

If he hadn't once been a vampire.

Thick green Orcish fingers pried his right hand open with brutish gentleness, and pressed the amulet heavily into his outstretched palm, just enough for reflex to curl his fingers around it so it didn't fall back out. She took a step back and smirked, her hands on her hips for a moment before she drew her magical blade again, the metal free of any signs that it had ever seen battle. "I'll go and deal with the rest of these imbeciles. You just find the door, 'kay? I'll meet yer there."

Rush ran off. She had her weaknesses, of course; since Seanturco had met her he had learnt that she was horrendously long-sighted, meaning she often had trouble seeing things right in front of her face, annoying in combat, but somehow she managed to hide it, she had a strange attitude to life and death that could be described as almost morbid, she lost most of her agility in her bulky, muscular stature. Yet _she_ just coped with them. So why couldn't he?

Maybe it was because Orcs were raised in combat and High Elves were raised in magic. Maybe it was because she had grown up throughout the Warp in the West while he was being mollycoddled on the Summerset Isles. Maybe it was just physiological... Maybe his mind should stop making excuses for his own patheticness.

He followed her with slow feet and a heavy heart, shaken up from his experiences. He stepped over the red-spattered ground in a complete daze, he almost walked straight into the same darts trap as before, but stopped and changed direction just in time. He saw the body of the Altmer who had been flirting with him earlier, her scarily short life at an end, her body crumpled on the ground and covered in electrical burns. High Elves went down easily. They were vulnerable to most magicka out there.

When eventually Seanturco reached the exit, Rush was already there leaning against the wall, her arms folded, her sword sheathed. He blinked at her blankly and she smiled back, cracking the knuckles on her left hand with her thumb. "Better get some practice in before we go to defend Bruma," she told him with a stifled chuckle. "Daedra aren't _quite_ as forgiving as necromancers."

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_Author Note: Yes, I know. A bloody long wait for a bloody short and bloody awful chapter. Well, I think it's bloody awful. I shall now proceed to give a couple of excuses, because I feel like it... First up, it was half term last week (my school is stupid and retarded so I had half term a week earlier than everyone else) and I could not be bothered to write, I was also waiting for reviews and thus put it off. I got hit in the face with springs from a L58A2 rifle (ie, extremely high powered, solid metal springs with a sharp edge and a kick to them, also covered in OX24 oil, which I'm allergic to), and yes the cut was tiny, but no that didn't stop the blood pouring out of my face for two hours. I'm very lucky to have not lost my right eye, and trust me, you wouldn't have a chapter AT ALL if that had happened. I'm also having a period of MASSIVE creative differences with the directors of my play, who have not read or acted upon ANY of the stage directions and will NOT listen to me! Consequently, my foul mood has ticked off my best friend, who now refuses to speak to me._

_I wrote more than 50% of this yesterday. Literally. I had nothing for the first week. It's awful, really... Well, I do like the first bit with Tar-Meena, and I haven't read any of it after that. The perspective changes quite a bit, because I know what's coming, and I know what I needed to happen in this chapter. Oh, and this is the first of four Seanturco-tastic chapters, because angsty ex-vampires are awesome. You should be able to pinpoint those four quests with ease, actually... If enough people ask, next chapter I might give you a list of those ten OCs I'm putting in the Battle of Bruma... If not, you're on your own. HINT: Think one from each faction (NB combat faction. Honestly, who would send a thief into battle?), then think 3 main characters... and then think angsty ex-vampires. Oh, and Jena is NOT an OC. I ran this past my friend, and she suggested Jena. Please don't._

_Cheer me up with reviews, and maybe next chapter will be better :) ~ARTY~_


	38. The Coldest Sleep

_I wanted to get to 90 reviews in 33 chapters... and now I have almost 200 in 37... I love you guys :) (And I've overtaken Broken Daggers in review number... How did this happen exactly?)_

_Idledreamcatcher and Commentaholic - Spot the word of the week :P_

_NB: Nobody in Kvatch counts as an OC. I just think more than 10 or so people ought to have survived. Because, in real life, there would be more than 25 people in a town._

_Random Fact: Most misspelt name by me: Seanturco (quite frequently, in fact); Most misspelt name by reviewers: Idari (I don't think a single reviewer has NOT spelt it wrong yet). Why the difference, huh?_

_**Quote: I can cope with pain... - Westley - The Princess Bride **__(I've been going out of my way to find a quote from that film I could use, so here it is)_

_**SHAMELESS ADVERTISING: If you're feeling nice and/or have some time on your hands, please go and review The Dunmer Champion by cola1806. I'm a firm believer in constructive criticism, and I have a feeling she's going unnoticed. Also, if you're reading this and you haven't yet reviewed the latest chapter of Blood and Steel, don't be heartless, go review it.**_

_

* * *

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Chapter 38

Thump.

_Ouch_.

Two golden eyes flickered open, and immediately wished that they hadn't, closing again as if that would block out the rest of the world, pain coursing through their owner sadistically.

And in truth, he was surprised he was still alive.

Turner opened his eyes again, looking around to see exactly where he was. He could cope with pain, just about, but this was a strange unforgiving pain that was verging on the brink of being overwhelming. He wanted to sit up but his limbs felt heavy as if they were made of lead, he wanted to speak but his throat burnt and his mouth felt dry. Suddenly he felt a cold hand touched to his forehead and looked up to the best of his abilities, being unable to move with pain flowing through him at every opportunity.

"Calm down," a female voice whispered gently, and the scrunching of fabric alerted him to the fact that she was crouching down beside him. She was a Redguard, judging by her accent, but he hadn't yet managed to capture a clear glance of her. "I had the mages Silence you when you started regaining consciousness - you were screaming about something at first, something I couldn't understand, and I had them Paralyse you when you started thrashing against the pain. I felt bad to order such actions, but you could easily have hurt yourself otherwise, and half of the city would have been knocking on my door complaining of the noise." The hand was removed from his head, and he felt the pressure reappear on his right forearm gently. "I'll be sure to Dispel those enchantments now that you're awake."

The woman stood up, or at least, that's what Turner assumed she was doing, because he could no longer feel her touch on his arm and the sounds reaching his ears were somewhat reminiscent of somebody crossing a room and a heavy book, or box of some description, being dropped heavily onto an old wooden table. He presumed it was a book though, because the sound that followed it was suprisingly like pages being turned.

"I suppose you'll be wondering where you are, or why you are here, or who I am..." the Redguard woman said. Her voice was definitely further away now, but was strangely calming. "My name is Oleta, and I am a survivor of the Sack of Kvatch." There was a tinge of sadness in her tone as she said that, perhaps she was haunted by the souls of her lost friends and acquaintances. "I am a healer and a priestess of Akatosh. You were brought here because you were injured, by the Hero of Kvatch and an Imperial Blade... and a horse. Well, the horse brought you here, the two women followed after it." She laughed and the page flipping stopped to be replaced by the sound of a finger running across a page and the sound of Ayleid words flowing from an unfamiliar tongue.

The strange weight on his limbs left him, and he felt slightly more prepared, or at least more able, to talk. He struggled upwards, the thumping pain only increasing with his efforts and wrenching a light whimper from his lips.

"I know it hurts," Oleta said gently, but she didn't move from her seat. He saw her for the first time, saw how thin she was, saw the sadness and loss in her brown eyes. "There's not much I can do about that. Even the best healers can't work miracles." There was regret in her tone, and her eyes appeared to glisten slightly with forming tears. She hastily turned away and rubbed her eyes, muttering some excuse about tiredness. "I was never told your name..."

"Shoots-An-Arrow." It was a name that was becoming increasingly spread about Cyrodiil, but to his knowledge, no Argonian under this name had ever crossed the border. There were few people around who actually knew - and used - his real name. It struck him that he was becoming increasingly like Idari.

The healer nodded with understanding. "I'm afraid I had to cut your bow in order to heal you," she stated sadly. "I don't have any money to pay for a new one, but you appeared to have some money on your person while I was healing you..."

Turner sighed, looking down at his body. He was wearing some loose brown clothing now, but his leather armour was at the end of the small bed he was on. For a moment he looked about for a second bed in the room, for the place where Oleta would have slept throughout his time here, and yet he saw none. A knot of guilt formed in his stomach. "I'm sorry I've been a burden to you," he said quietly. "You don't have to pay me back. It was a load of rubbish anyway. Thank you for saving my life. I... should be going."

"I wouldn't if I were you," Oleta said kindly. "The Hero of Kvatch is returning to get you soon. It's been five days you've been sleeping, and you should stay a while to regain your strength. We also have a smith in town who would be happy to make a bow for you; the gods only know we need the revenue right now."

_Five days?_ The knot in his stomach coiled a little tighter and he shifted his position a little so that his feet could touch the simple stone floor. The house was built simply enough, with four wooden walls and a salvaged stone floor; the contents were simpler, a wooden bed and a wooden table, with scraps of wood to keep salvaged books and potions off of the floor, and the rest of the priestess' possessions from getting dirty. She sat on a slightly wonky chair with a rigid wooden back but bowed wooden legs.

"Are you hungry?"

Now that she had mentioned it, he suddenly noticed the void in his stomach that probably ought to have been filled wth food. He didn't eat much, granted, but he usually ate with more regularity than once every five days. "I don't want to burden you any further," he replied as politely as he could muster, hoping she would give him some food anyway.

"It's no trouble." A wry smile appeared on her face as she made her way across the room to a decidedly battered cupboard, probably something that had been salvaged from the wreckages. It's original owners were probably dead, but the survivors of Kvatch had little choice but to make do. She returned with some salted meat and a small loaf of bread. "We don't have much here, but we make do," the Redguard explained, returning to the cupboard and taking out a similar meal for herself before pulling her rickety old chair up next to the bed and sitting with him. "We're lucky Skingrad and the West Weald are so prosperous. Count Hassildor has sent us enough food to survive the winter, and Countess Umbranox is going to send us more supplies once the traders return from sea in the spring."

Turner took a bite of the bread ravenously, despite feeling quite bad for eating the rations of the survivors of that terrible event. He was fairly sure that by now everybody on Tamriel knew what had happened to Kvatch. "Count Hassildor and Countess Umbranox are considered among the most just rulers in Cyrodiil," he pointed out. His throat was still horribly dry, and his muscles ached as he swallowed, but his body seemed to have deemed food worth the pain.

"As was Count Goldwine." Sadness crossed her features momentarily, before it was replaced with a defiant look. "He didn't survive the invasion, but Savlian Matius has proven himself a good and just leader until we can find a replacement. What makes him perfect to lead us is that he lived through it with us, he _saved_ us, and therefore we do not receive sympathy from him, but understanding. High Chancellor Ocato sent us sympathy. We don't want sympathy. We want action."

The Argonian looked down at his now empty plate with a look of disappointment, but said nothing about it. If Kvatch could make do, then so could he. "The Hero of Kvatch will get you justice. Dagon will pay. I've _seen_ Oblivion, and its a terrible place. I will gladly take my place in the Battle of Bruma when it occurs, and I will fight for Kvatch, to thank you for the kindness you've shown me."

Oleta smiled, and took the wooden plate, laying it on the table. Turner noted that she'd barely touched her own food, which might explain why she was so deathly thin. "We have sent soldiers to Bruma," she said. "We don't wish our fate on anybody. Besides, Jesan and Ilend jumped at the opportunity for revenge the day the letter from Grandmaster Jauffre arrived... You've seen Oblivion?" She contemplated this fact for a moment before continuing. "Then you must be the Argonian who saved Skingrad!" Her smile brightened, and for the first time during the whole conversation she seemed truly happy. "Without you Kvatch would be nothing but rubble right now. We only survive because of aid from Skingrad."

"It was the Hero of Kvatch who did the saving," Turner pointed out modestly, shying away from her praise before rising painfully to his feet. "I did nothing."

"Ah, but the definition of a hero is someone who does something very brave. I can think of no-one braver than somebody who would lay down his life for the protection of others. You may not have done the saving, but you ran into that gate for a reason. The gods truly must favour you."

Her words struck him strangely deeply and yet he failed to think of a viable reply. He picked up his black leather armour and was surprised to find that it was in one piece, the numerous tears held together with what looked like magic... or could easily be some rather tiny stitches. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For fixing this."

Oleta chuckled. "It wasn't me. Emelin, from the Mages Guild, fixed it for you. She often helps me when it comes to healing. There weren't many magical survivors... Not many proficient survivors anyway... She and Sigrid have been a bit stretched by the rebuilding effort, but she made an effort for you, considering how much the Hero of Kvatch cares about you."

Turner did a double take painfully. "You what?"

"The Hero of Kvatch brought you here, she..." The Redguard stopped, amused. "You didn't know that, did you?" He shook his head, pain shooting through his neck as he did so. "She said that in saving you, Kvatch would be repaying our debt to her. It looked as if she'd tried to heal you herself, but wasn't very successful... I'd say she must care about you quite a bit."

Who would have believed it? Well, certainly not Turner. She put up with him, but that was usually with a fair amount of insults attached and fairly begrudgingly. Things had been different after the Purification, but not by much. It wasn't every day one was ordered to kill one's Brothers after all.

"I think caring is too often mistaken for a sense of comradeship," he pointed out. He sounded sad though, like he was just trying to detract from what he knew to be true. "I think she only wished me healed because nobody else will put up with her attitude. It makes me a fool, but I think there's good in her... somewhere." His eyes travelled to the ground and he took a couple of steps forwards towards the door. The pain was almost bearable now, but maybe he recovery just felt faster because he'd been walking about on broken ribs only a few weeks beforehand.

"There is a lot of good in her," the healer said finally, crossing to the door and pulling it open for him. "She saved Kvatch. She shut Oblivion gates outside Bruma, Chorrol, Cheydinhal, Bravil, Leyawiin... She saved you." It was the last point that caught Turner's attention the most, even though he didn't want to admit it. "She might act like an evil cow, and she might treat you like dirt, but if she wasn't truly good at heart then she would have left Kvatch to burn, and she would have left you to die."

He knew she was good at heart though. He always had. He didn't need a priestess of Akatosh to tell him that.

"You'll have to trust me when I tell you that I know her a lot better than you," he stated in a low voice after a lot of thought. "There's a lot more to her than meets the eye. Don't take anything people say about her for granted."

xxx

If a scree-slope on the way up a steep hill was difficult, a scree-slope on the way down was... well, _fun_.

In the end Seanturco gave up and flew back down the hill using Levitation, a spell he had learnt on the Summerset Isles that nobody in all of Cyrodiil seemed to be able to pull off. Rush just stomped down the hill as easily as she had stomped up, placing her feet with what looked like no care or attention and not even slipping once.

Seanturco was momentarily jealous.

He covered it up by reaching into a pocket of his robes and drawing out the map that Tar-Meena had given him, staring at it intently for a moment or two before putting it back. "We're going to Fort Teleman now," he told Rush on no uncertain terms, mounting his chestnut horse after untying her reins from the tree.

"If he's not a necromancer too then he'll he dead," the Orc pointed out on equally uncertain terms. "Caranya would have betrayed him in a heartbeat. I guarantee you that that fort will be crawling with necromancers."

"Then I'll be ready this time."

He couldn't really have put his failure in Fort Ontus down to lack of readiness. If he had been ready it might have helped him, granted, but it wouldn't have made the difference between him winning and him losing. He would have lost that fight if it weren't for Rush anyway. The truth was that he had grown complacent during his time as a vampire. When he was a vampire he could kill with his bare hands or with his teeth, if needs be, so magic wasn't as important as it was now; he could move faster than anything he would be being persued by, and he was stronger than most of them too. But now? No such luck.

Now he was nothing more than a frail High Elf, whose worst injury in his entire life were two puncture wounds to his shoulder from a vampire attack, and who couldn't punch his way out of a ripped paper bag if he was ever Silenced. All he had now was magic, and he was hideously out of practice after all this time. His performance in Fort Ontus was, in a word, lackadaisical, lacking in vigour and careless, while Rush... well, she had excelled herself, obviously.

He glanced over at the Orcish battlemage when he was sure she wasn't looking and, for the first time ever, was a little glad to have her around. He would be dead now if it weren't for her and she knew it, meaning that she was likely thinking up a scheme to make sure he never forgot it as they rode along aimlessly in the vague direction of Leyawiin, or at least Blackwood, to find the offending Fort and retrieve the Bloodworm Helm.

"Thank you," he whispered, though his pride was almost too great to prevent him from saying even that much.

She turned to him with a vaguely sadistic grin. "I'm just doing my job," she told him, and he knew that, given the choice, neither of them would be in this situation right now.

"Why here?" the Altmer asked suddenly. He noticed the flicker of confusion in her eyes and continued before she asked him what he meant exactly. "You never see Orc mages outside of Orsinium, not with any regularity like you see Altmer away from the Summerset Isles. So why would you come here?"

"Probably for the same reason you did. The Arcane University is the best magical centre in Tamriel, save perhaps the Psijics, who are notoriously hard to find and fussy when found," Rush shrugged indifferently. "Usually the Orc mages get drafted into the army pretty early on, so I left pretty early on. Wound up here. Makes no difference to me."

How could she be so care-free? That was what Seanturco really wanted to know. She didn't care about her rank in the University, she didn't care about killing necromancers, she didn't care about dying.

His respect for her was newfound, and growing rapidly.

But he'd never tell her that.

xxx

If there are two things you can trust of a Nord, it's to get exceedingly drunk when in contact with alcohol, and to find the highest, most inaccessible campsite in the whole of Cyrodiil. Well, that was what Lucien Lachance's Silencer was thinking right now.

Dunmer were used to conditions with earth and wind and fire, and up here in the Jerall Mountains there was no fire, and the earth was frozen into thick layers of permafrost, and the wind was so cold that it could freeze a bottle of Tamika's West Weald wine at twenty paces.

It had taken Idari almost five days to get this far, and even then she was still at the base of Gnoll Moutain, which was one of the highest peaks in the entire Jerall mountain range unless one ventured off of Cyrodilic soil. She had put on the large black robes again, attempting to imbue it with some kind of heating enchantment as she'd done so, but failing mainly because she had the wrong equipment and her knowledge of enchanting was limited at best. The spell had leaked out of the black fabric in a little over ten minutes and now it was all she could do to prevent herself turning into a bad-tempered lump of black-robed ice.

From where she was standing, the assassin could not see a viable path up the mountain that wasn't covered in potentially neck-breaking ice and snow. She could have easily climbed up the moutainside by Levitation, bu she was not prepared to expend her magicka reserves so soon before going into battle and thus settled upon walking up the roughly sixty degree slope.

Leaving Shadowmere at the base she set off. He probably could have scaled the mountain easily enough, but getting down was what worried her, even if he was nigh invulnerable to harm. Plus, riding a horse up a sheer icy slope was not something she wished to experience, as the chances of falling off and breaking her neck were far too high for her liking.

On the southern side of the slope, the ground seemed to be slightly less steep, and appeared to have been worn away by footsteps of someone with far larger feet than her. Well, she _was_ looking for a Nord. Idari scrambled up on all-fours for part of the slope; it was undignified, but perhaps necessary, and she was glad that the only person who would be around to see her would be dying in a short while anyway.

There are many advantages to establishing a camp high on a mountaintop: the remoteness means that one is highly unlikely to be found, indeed one would probably only be found if the person in question was specifically searching for you, the cold means some of the more fearsome predators would never find you - is it even possible for a Minotaur Lord to climb a sixty degree slope? - and the constant snow means that tracks are often covered over as a result. But there are many disadvantages as well: the remoteness means there is nobody to answer your plea for help if you are ever found, the cold means that you're liable to catch frostbite all year round, and the constant snow means that nivation turns your covered over footprints into immortalised sheets of ice.

Still, Idari Mortha was fairly sure that Havilstein Hoar-Blood would not be expecting Sithis to come knocking at his door so quickly. It would be a swift retribution, and he would pay dearly for his sins.

In the distance the Silencer could see a small fire with a tiny iron pot swinging over it, a Nord huddled next to it warming his enormous hands, each one easily as big as the mer's head, and at his feet lay an animal of some description, possibly a dog but large enough to be a wolf. She cast Chameleon over herself and snuck a few metres towards him, until she was easily within range to kill him.

It should have been an easy kill.

But she had forgotten about the other advantage of snow.

It is very difficult to walk through thick snow, or thin snow, without leaving some kind of depression in it, and even harder to sneak through it without emitting a distinctive crunching sound as the pressure created by one's weight turns the white powder into ice.

And Havilstein Hoar-Blood was expecting her. That was something she could never have predicted.

He sprang to his feet instantly, drawing himself to his full height, grey eyes fixed solely on her location. His hands reached the hilt of one of the two battleaxes that swung at his hips and pulled it free, charging at her. He wore armour of fur, which was useful for living in cold conditions but did little in the way of protecting the wearer from harm, and the wolf at his feet sprung into action too, gnashing his feral teeth menacingly

Idari sidestepped the first attack in utter shock, her gloved hands finding purchase on the hilt of her newly repaired shortsword and drawing it out from her left hip as her feet once again betrayed her location and Hoar-Blood whipped his massive axe in her direction again. It was enchanted, the one he had chosen to use, though the other was not; she couldn't quite figure out what it was enchanted with, but she was sure she didn't want to find out in any way that he had in mind.

She ducked underneath the swing of his axe and dived to one side, rolling smartly back to her feet on the grey rocky area that he had chosen to camp on. It was intelligent really, not building a campsite on a snowdrift that could potentially move. It did make it easier for assassinations though.

"A pitiful attempt, Dunmer," the Nord growled, his teeth bared like those of his wolf companion. "With all the news of your expertise, I had expected something a little more... expert."

The assassin began to wonder exactly how this man knew of her, but her thoughts were cut short when the wolf lunged at her. She swung her shortsword at it, but the wound it inflicted was not severe enough to cause any permanent damage, nicking the skin slightly so that blood flowed but nothing actually happened. The wolf whined with pain and snapped his teeth at the invisible figure again, flinging himself through the air to the place where she had been standing with just enough force to knock her over.

With the animal on top of her, despite her invisibility, Idari cursed her disadvantaged situation as the Nord approached her slowly, terrifyingly slowly. Suddenly though, a ray of hope as the fingers of her left hand brushed the hilt of her concealed Blade of Woe, exposed as the black robe she had been wearing tore at the mercy of the wolf's claws. She lifted it as high as she could manage and drove it without remorse into the back of the creature's neck, causing it to yelp and flop forwards onto her, its blood coating her.

Hoar-Blood growled, a peculiar sound half-way between a cry of pain at the loss of the wolf and a battle cry of vengeance, and lunged at her with some force. She pushed the body of the wolf to one side and rolled away just as the axe impacted the ground with enough force to leave a sizeable dent exactly where her head had been just seconds earlier. The smears of blood that covered her were giving her position away like a warning beacon, but she made no attempt to Dispel the Chameleon enchantment that seemed to be holding rather well. Instead she turned tail and ran.

The huge Nord followed her at a shocking pace, able to follow a bloody outline and freshly formed footprints in freshly fallen snow. She was climbing, up the mountain as quickly as she could, though getting away was not high on her agenda at all. What sort of assassin would she be without a back-up plan?

Perhaps her next move was horrifically cliched, but in practice it was still rather effective. She ran to the edge of the peak and leapt over the edge, Levitation preventing her from plummeting to her death and suspending her half way between the rock and the ground. Hoar-Blood stalked to the edge and inspected the tracks in the snow with a growl, grabbing an amulet of some description from his pocket and muttering a quiet prayer of some description before slinging it around his neck.

Instantly his eyes fixed on her like she was a glowing beacon, his grip on his axe tightening until it was almost vice-like. "Fight me properly Dunmer," he growled, his knuckles turning white. Her only response was to through a stream of fire at him, but it bounced off an invisible shield harmlessly. A sadistic grin crossed his face. "I have been preparing for this day ever since you murdered J'Ghasta," the Nord said, strangely amused. "Did you think you would kill me easily, Dunmer?"

What did J'Ghasta have to do with anything? Idari thought back to the contract; he was a nobleman who had passed off a wedding because the dowry was pitiful. Nothing to do with a man wanted dead by the sister of a murdered chieftain...

Her Chameleon spell wore off on its own accord and she made no attempt to renew it, revealing herself held in mid air by a cushion of magic, wearing a battered and torn black robe with black void armour beneath, a silver shortsword clasped in her right hand, her left free for magic or for the use of her Akaviri katana if it should come down to it, her own blood still matting her hair across her blue skin beneath her dark hood.

"You are not worthy to wear that robe," Havilstein spat. Though she masked the confusion on her face, the Nord seemed to have sensed the subtle change in her emotional state that occured. "Where did you find it little Dunmer?" he mocked her, bearing his teeth.

She thought back. _J'Ghasta_. What did this man have to do with J'Ghasta? Nothing, besides being near... _Bruma_. Why was Bruma so important all of a sudden?

"Think about it Dunmer..." he was continuing and she was barely paying attention now. "Who do you know who wears black robes?"

_Who indeed?_ She continued to think as she slashed at him, though he knocked her attack aside with almost negligible effort. _None that spring to mind_. She ducked underneath the swing of the enchanted axe while lunging at his hamstring as her feet came into contact with solid ground again. The Nord merely sidestepped her potentially debilitating blow as if it were nothing more than a gust of wind and fought back with a powerful blow to the lower part of her body, causing her to have to jump off of the cliff just to avoid being sliced clean in half.

A Slowfall spell and a significant Fortify Health enchantment were all that stopped her breaking her legs when she landed heavily on the ground below a few seconds later, losing her footing and slipping a little further on the ice. She would have skinned her legs completely, if the leather armour she was wearing hadn't taken most of the impact.

Hoar-Blood surprised her further by throwing a shock spell in her direction as she fought to maintain her balance, and she managed to Reflect it back at him just in time, his own magicka catching him on the leg through the shield that he'd put up. That was the main problem with magical shielding: it didn't protect you from your own spells.

He fell backwards, to her disappointment, instead of forwards over the cliff edge, but the delay was just long enough for her to jump back to her feet and sure herself up to prevent slipping further down the slope. The fur-clad giant rose back to his ful height a few moments later, and as a last resort Idari retaliated by throwing her Blade of Woe at him.

Sufficed to say, Havilstein Hoar-Blood had _not_ been expecting that.

He reacted too slowly to move out of its path and took it heavily in the abdomen, the blade penetrating fully into his skin, not meeting any resistance in the fur armour whatsoever. His grip on the axe faltered, and he dropped it to the snow covered ground at his feet, both hands finding the hilt of the Blade of Woe and yanking it from his skin with a growl of pain as she moved his axe over the edge of the cliff using Telekinesis.

Idari Mortha was not skilled in ranged fighting. It was the one discipline of assassination that she had never found useful and thus she had never felt the need to train as she had in bladed combat. Now, stuck on a contract to kill the man before her from afar she faltered slightly as to what to do. _If she had had Turner with her..._ No, that thought was stopped before it even formed properly, banished from her brain in shame to rot with the other unworthy thoughts. Still, had Idari Mortha had a bow and arrow of any description, she would have looked at it now, and she would have lined up an easy shot on her fallen target with a nocked arrow, and she would have breathed slowly, counting to five in her mind, her gloved fingers brushing against her blue-skinned cheek, and she would have loosed the arrow... And she would have missed. With magic she was formidable, with a blade she was deadly, but with a bow and arrow she was little better than a child. It was something she considered her biggest weakness.

She Levitated up to his level, Disintegrating the axe at his hip as if it had never been there at all, leaving him with only her Blade of Woe covered in _his_ blood and the blood of _his_ wolf to use as an offensive weapon.

"I wish I had time to make you die a thousand deaths," she spat at him. She knew the pain of a sister losing a brother, and for the first time in a long time she could level with the person who had taken out the contract on this man's life, making it strangely more personal than her previous murders. "But Time is not my friend."

"Sithis have mercy on your soul, traitor," the felled Nord growled with undeniable anger but depressingly little fear. He slashed at her with her own knife and she avoided the blow with ease now that the power behind it was slightly diminished, especially due to the fact that such a massive man was probably ill-accustomed to using such a short blade.

"Sithis, eh?" Her blow hit home this time, drawing blood from the right side of his chest as the blade passed awkwardly between two ribs despite his attempts to block it with the small knife. "You're obviously _dying_ to tell me something. Care to divulge before I kill you?"

Hoar-Blood gritted his teeth to deal with the pain and raised his arm to cast a healing spell, but she Silenced his magical ability while leaving his mouth free to form Cyrodilic words. "The Black Hand..." The silver blade very nearly tore his left arm off as he raised it to shield himself from her blows, a torrent of blood running down the now useless limb. "J'Ghasta..." he blinked against his body's natural response of tears in his eyes. He was not prepared to die crying. "Uvani... The traitor... we knew..."

He sighed and dropped both arms to his sides only seconds before she dealt a blow that passed through his ribs and ruptured his left ventricle, blood spurting out with surprising force, covering the black robe. Only after she did this did she actually compute what he had been trying to explain.

"We knew the traitor was Lachance."

The Nord flopped forwards like a broken doll, exsanguination taking him quickly, and for a second Idari hovered before the corpse with a look of absolute shock on her face.

The traitor was Lachance? J'Ghasta and Uvani were Black Hand? Did this mean that Havilstein was Black Hand too, or was he just Brotherhood? Was Shaleez? That made four... Four, plus Lachance... The whole Black Hand?

Idari frowned deeply. Had she killed the Black Hand? Well, if that _was_ the case, then the only thing she had to say about that matter was that they were extremely weak for people who were apparently so skilled. How could one lone Dunmer take out the entire Black Hand if they were as amazing as they were made out to be?

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_Author Note: Yeah, this chapter was short, and written quickly. It's because I had NOTHING to do on Saturday, so I wrote and I wrote and I wrote... Plus, I don't think I'm going to be able to post next week because I'm going to the wonders of Norfolk, and after that I'm going to the wonders of Oxford University for some stupid maths day thingymabob... Please sense my enthusiasm. I couldn't figure out how to make this chapter longer without skipping a vast swathe of time (the time it took Idari to get back to Kvatch) and basically ending on a bad note, which is something I'm not prepared to do, since I quite liked writing this assassination chapter. The section with Rush and Seanturco is probably the section I liked least in this chapter, and its a tad too short, but as soon as I get around to writing the next three chapters they will feature heavily, so don't feel hard done by._

_I realised today that DualKatanas and I have been called 'nitpicky and irritating' due to our sometimes admittably over the top Grammar Nazi reviewing. Seriously people, there's a reason for the review reply button. If you don't like it, SAY SOMETHING! And please don't bitch about it on somebody else's review page. I'm not ticked off, don't get me wrong, I realise my reviewing is sometimes a little OTT in harshness, but I don't believe niceties help people improve. Apologies. Rant over._

_Random things: Nivation is when snow turns into ice under pressure (geographical term). A scree-slope is a slope covered in small rocks (another geographical term). Permafrost is soil that is frozen all year round (geographical term). The left ventricle is a chamber of the heart, the chamber that feeds the aorta (biological term) And lackadaisical means a lack of vigour or careless. You can probably tell that I take geography and biology A-level by reading this. I apologise for the technical terms, but I couldn't think of another way to explain it. Oh, and the knife to the abdomen was a reference to The Princess Bride - my favourite film ever - in which Inigo Montoya gets a throwing knife imbedded in his stomach and yet somehow (important character invulnerability) still manages to kill the Six-Fingered Man (Count Rugen) who was his arch-nemesis and the secondary antagonist of the whole film. Couldn't resist it._

_Again, sorry for the shortness, and sorry for the really, really long author notes. I will cut them down eventually. Oh, and thanks for the seven reviews I received, despite two of my most regular reviewers not actually reviewing. If you get me over 200 reviews I will actually love you. To quote Moulin Rouge (or Thelma Houston) : Don't leave me this way!_

_Thank you and good night_

_~ARTY~_


	39. The Bloodworm Helm

_Top 5 Songs of the Moment (listen to them, they're good): I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues - Elton John; She's Always A Woman To Me - Fyfe Dangerfield; Someone Like You - Adele; Dance With My Father - Luther van Dross; Disco 2000 - Pulp_

_**nachosforever - Not two, but three reviews. Fine by me. Waking up to three reviews is a nice thing :) Even if two are exactly the same... :P A revelation about Idari's name? Maybe not, but maybe, just maybe, she might slip up and tell somebody just once, and it'll start something beyond her control. Thank you for stealing 200. Trust me, I shan't become snobby about it, though your compliment made me smile. There are much better stories than mine out there, but I'm so glad you like it :D ~ARTY~**_

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Chapter 39_

In life, there is a sad fact that what goes up, must come down. This includes Dunmeri assassins who scale mountains in order to gain a living from a man who didn't seem to be able to talk to her in person and had apparently had her knock off the rest of the Black Hand... presumably for his own gain? She wasn't sure.

After her initial reaction, a wave of shock had rushed over her as she'd retrieved her Blade of Woe from Havilstein Hoar-Blood's dead, crimson-stained fingers. Why would Lucien want her to kill them? What did he gain from it? Not a lot, actually... And why would he have made her perform the Purification if he was the traitor himself? While she didn't begin to claim she could understand the complex brainwaves of a cold-hearted half-Breton, half-Imperial assassin, it was definitely something she could not make add up in her mind, no matter which way she span it.

Idari Mortha descended the mountain with far more ease than she had climbed it, despite the ice and snow. This time the slips didn't matter, since gravity was only aiding her in her task now instead of hindering. Her mind was racing by the time she reached the base though, making strange reasons in her head as to just why Lucien would want her to kill the Black Hand... but every time there was one thing that wouldn't click with the rest: The Purification.

Shadowmere was waiting exactly where she had left him, though an ominous bloodstain nearby led her to believe that he had not been here the whole time. It wasn't as if it mattered though; that horse had more intelligence than a lot of the humans out there, and a fair few mer too, and the Beastfolk? Well...

"Do you think Lucien's the traitor?" Any other day, in any other circumstance, she would never have resorted to speaking to an _animal_, but right now there was nobody else about and she was sure Shadowmere understood her, even if he couldn't reply in words she could comprehend. "Or do you think he and I are just pawns in this game? Either way, if the Black Hand is dead and he's not responsible, I suppose that makes him next. Nobody controlling _me_ would be that stupid."

It made her feel stupid to suspect that she might have been being controlled by somebody she would probably not have the displeasure of acquainting. If she ever met the perpetrator she would gut him where he stood and watch with glee as his organs dropped out onto the ground below. And then she would heal him and do it again. Call her a sadist, but Idari Mortha was not a woman who took kindly to being made to look stupid.

She mounted the stallion quickly and he took off at his usual blistering pace back southwards towards the ruined city of Kvatch, and a young Argonian that the horse could not make out the importance of.

The journey was short. It had taken five days to reach Gnoll Mountain, but for most of that time the Dunmer had been restricting the demon's speed. Blisteringly cold deserts high in the mountains gave way to temperate climates with trees aplenty and stunning vistas of the most famous Ayleid building of all in the very centre of the most famous town in all of Tamriel overlooking the shimmering lake, and after the trees were passed came the farms and flowers of the West Weald - every alchemist's dream - where the shepherds hummed simple tunes while tending to their flocks with the same love that a parent gives to a child and the pickers selected only the finest grapes to crush into the finest wine to come from Cyrodilic soil with due care and attention perhaps misplaced to such a mundane task. Finally, after two days and two full nights of non-stop riding, as dawn crested the hills of the Colovian Highlands and filled the area with a soft golden light, the steep path to the tortured and battered plateau upon which Kvatch rested.

Idari slipped from the stallion to the ground without making a sound, and threw off the bloody, torn black robe that she had left on for the sole reason of getting back to this town as quickly as she could manage. She left the robe with her horse and she left her horse to his own devices.

The guards of Kvatch saw her quickly, but they recognised the animal she rode rather than the rider herself. The gates still had hoof-shaped indentations emblazoned upon them from the last time.

They let her in.

Up close it was impossible to_ not_ know who she was, and the select few that hadn't noticed until it was too late kicked themselves for their stupidity. This time her mood was unreadable. She marched past them without giving the illusion of acknowledgement and approached the home of their resident healer with determination.

She didn't make it. The Bosmer mage Emelin stopped her in her tracks by raising a hand and speaking: "If you're looking for that Argonian of yours, he's in the forge." The mage's face seemed to light up at the prospect that the Hero of Kvatch was actually listening to her this time, following the harsh reply she had received the time before. She pointed in the direction of the place she was describing. "Follow that track and you won't be able to miss it."

The Hero of Kvatch nodded but said nothing, not even a muttering of thanks, but even acknowledgement of her words was enough to make Emelin's day. She had lived enough years to know that it wasn't every day when you found yourself in the presence of a real life hero.

The rebuilding effort was continuing today while it was dry. It had been raining for the past two days and the construction had all but drawn to a halt. They all seemed to have banded together now and much of the wreckage had been cleared away, anything salvageable was taken to the castle to be stored since the place was not in use now. Savlian Matius refused to be considered their leader; he made do with a simple tent for now and slept in the castle grounds with a select few of the other survivors. The rest slept in the makeshift houses or in the chapel which, despite the leaking roof due to the dislodged spire, was still the only building that had survived mostly intact during the raid and thus made a fine place for survivors to lodge for now.

The 'forge' was little more than a sheet of cloth propped over salvaged blacksmithing equipment to keep it dry while the smith busied herself creating replacement nails and screws from the old, mangled ones that the townsfolk found in the piles of debris. She was an Orcish woman with sharp yellow eyes and a knot of black hair held flush against her head with a strip of slightly singed leather; she wore a tatty pink skirt and bodice, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, with soot smeared all over it as she hammered into the red hot metal she held over an anvil with a pair of blackened tongs that had definitely seen better days. With practiced efficiency she plunged the metal into a bucket of water beside her and a plume of steam rose upwards as it cooled, and then she pulled it back out: a joint to hold together the weathered wood. She placed it into a pile of similar joints and rubbed her palms against her dress, creating streaks of grime.

"You gonna stand there gawpin'?" Traditional Orcish tact, but good to see at least. Despite the losses, life in Kvatch went on.

There was a young Redguard boy running about behind her, a bundle of metal held in his scrawny arms. He couldn't have been more than ten, and his curly brown hair seemed to sit in an almost perfect afro around his head. He looked up and shot Idari a toothy smile. "She's the Hero of Kvatch," he stated simply, grinning. Strange how children could be so nonchalant. Idari found herself wondering if his parents had survived, or whether it was just him now.

"I'm looking for my..." Idari faltered at saying the word 'friend'. She didn't have 'friends', not anymore. "For the Argonian who was healed here."

The Orc shrugged her green shoulders with apathy. "An' I s'pose someone sent you over 'ere to ask me?"

"I know where he is!" the boy said, his grin spreading even wider, if that were even possible. He put the metal down into a pile of scrap near the woman's feet and ran over to tug at the assassin's sleeve. "I'll show you." It seemed as if she didn't have much choice.

He led her across a plank of wood that had been used to substitute a drawbridge when it had collapsed a few days after the city had been retaken from the daedra, and he seemed to be intent upon babbling at her incessantly. "Thank you for saving our city. My aunt's on the City Watch, and she told me all about it and about how you went into that big gate and cut up all those dremora and... and stuff..." She wasn't paying much attention as they entered the castle courtyard, the scars of battle still visible and they seemed to be more interesting than what the boy was saying. Despite being so young, he was almost as tall as her already, or maybe it was that hair of his... "My aunt said you saved us, and she said I should thank you for doing that even though you're a real cow..." _That_ phrase caught Idari's attention alright, but she was surprised to find that she didn't feel any anger inside, and started chuckling instead. Oh, the innocence of children sometimes. "My name's Aden; what's yours?"

She was slightly startled by this bold question, mainly because nobody had asked her since the Emperor's sole living heir so many months beforehand. Nobody seemed to care about her name anymore. Or maybe they knew that she just wouldn't tell them.

"Oh..." The assassin had surprised herself by sounding so shocked. "My name is Idari." But why had she told him that? Why wasn't she...? She blamed the long ride she had just undertaken for frazzling her sense of logic. Why else would she tell people her real name?

"He's over there," Aden said, pulling her along with a little more urgency now, his scrawny finger pointing to a figure on the other side of the courtyard, behind all of the linen tents that seemed to be everywhere in no particular order.

The Argonian was startled to see her, especially in the presence of a child. He had never expected her to pay any attention to children; in fact, he had images in his head of her slaughtering them mercilessly. But here she was, a little Redguard boy clasping her hand with his own as if his only purpose in life was to hang on to her. "Hello," he said conversationally, suppressing a wince as pain shot through his left leg for the umpteenth time. "Fancy seeing you here." He had known she was coming back, but he had never thought he would be seeing her so soon. "I suppose I owe you thanks for saving my life."

Idari shook her head, noting that he appeared to have a new bow now and that his leather armoured looked as if it had been repaired by a rather expert seamstress. "You defeated a lich. I think that's worth your life."

Aden tugged at her sleeve again, and she looked at him. Turner smiled, the novelty of her accepting this child definitely not wearing off any time soon. "Idari, do you think we could build a big statue of you?" The Argonian cocked his head slightly; the child knew her real name? "Because we've got a statue of Antus Pinder, from when he tried to save us... And he didn't even win."

The Dark Elf appeared rather taken aback by this suggestion. "I..." For the first time in a long time she was truly lost for words. "I... think you should rebuild your town first." She had images of this statue in her head, and they weren't pretty. How would they build a monument to her if they didn't even know what she looked like?

The Redguard shot them both a grin and looked about mischievously. "I'm going to make you a statue myself." He ran away, leaving the pair alone save for the sets of tents.

There was silence for a few moments, until Turner broke it with a question: "You told him your name?"

"Didn't you?"

"Not my real name, no..." Awkward levels of quietness fell again. "He's a good kid. Lost both his parents when Kvatch was destroyed, but he's with his aunt Tierra and he seems pretty happy for someone who's been through so much. Batul lets him help out in the forge, but nobody really minds what he does. Most of the other kids are either scarred for life or dead."

"There are more?" Idari didn't like children one bit, so why did she even care now?

"Only thanks to you," Turner nodded. "One little girl they found curled up in a cupboard five days after they liberated the city. She'd crawled in there to hide when it all began, but then the house fell down around her. She stays in the chapel and doesn't go outside, poor kid... A little Dark Elf named Nalasa. She's only seven. Her mother was killed, but her father survived. He's been praising Akatosh ever since they found her."

"And I suppose you know them all?"

He shook his head awkwardly, pain rippling through his muscles as he did so. "Not all of them will speak to me. They'd speak to you, I guess... After their post-traumatic stress has worn off. Some of them have taken it better than others; Oleta barely eats, Sigrid barely speaks... Emelin and Aden seem OK, and Batul's fine when she's keeping busy. The others have off days. One Imperial man had such vivid nightmares that he drew a sword and very nearly killed his wife by accident; they had to Paralyse and restrain him, and then Oleta gave him a sleeping draft to take to keep the dreams at bay. You should go and speak to them; you're their hero."

The Dunmer scoffed instinctively. "I'm no hero." There was sadness in her tone, but it was almost undetectable to the untrained ear. She turned and began to leave, but Turner grabbed her arm to prevent her from walking away.

"Ah, but the definition of a hero is someone who does something very brave," he said, repeating the exact words that Oleta had said to him a few days beforehand. "You _saved_ them. Little kids in the street run up to you and offer to make you a statue! He's nine years old for gods' sake!"

"Yes, and the definition of a villain is someone who does something evil, for their own gain. Everything I did, I did for myself."

"I beg to differ." There was another pause, a longer one in which there was no sound between them except that of slightly quickened breath. "Let me show you..."

Idari pulled her arm from his grasp indignantly and folded her arms. "Show me what? Show me how I saved them, how I care so much? Show me how I'm good at heart?" She was growing steadily more agitated, and it was never a good sign of things to come.

"No." The Argonian shook his scaled head. "Because you already know. They all recognise you in the streets. They all effectively worship the ground you walk on. You don't want that, I understand, but I think you should see just what you saved... You gained nothing by saving them. Cyrodiil means nothing to you. After this is over you're going to run back to Morrowind and go back to your old life as if nothing ever happened, and you will remain a nameless champion forever. Just like the Nerevarine." He stopped and sighed deeply. "Besides, if you care only for yourself, what did you gain by saving _me_?"

"That's different. I consider you a f-" she stopped herself and shook her head firmly. Why was she slipping up so much today? "You're a comrade. It's bad sport to leave a comrade to die."

"Funny, I thought you were going to say I was your friend for a minute there," Turner pointed out, the sarcasm in his tone unmistakable. If he hadn't saved her brother, she probably would have stabbed him for treating her like that... but not today. Why today? What was special?

Nothing. _But she'd killed the Black Hand._

And he was still talking. She stopped to listen. "At least let me show you _what_ you saved. They know of your heroism, but do you know of their's?" He raised four gloved fingers. "Four places. Please?"

She grimaced, shifting uncomfortably on her feet. She wasn't having a good day; she wanted to be alone, but she'd come back for Turner. He wasn't going to leave, she could see, because they had saved him. "Very well." There was displeasure in her tone, but mostly she was sighing by way of giving in. "But only four places. I have a contract to pick up, and then you and I are needed in Cloud Ruler Temple." She was feeling mellow today, and it was a strange feeling unlike any one she had felt in a long time, probably since she had left Reron had left almost two years ago.

The Argonian nodded curtly. "Follow me then."

Though she followed his lead, they walked together around the mismatched collection of tents and crossed the plank slowly. It groaned slightly but didn't give way despite its flimsiness, leading Idari to believe that it was probably strengthened by some kind of magic. She also noted that Turner appeared to be limping slightly, which struck her as odd though she should have anticipated it considering his injuries. The first place he intended to drag her to was apparently at the very edge of the city, past the blacksmith who gave them a strange look as she started to hammer on another piece of glowing metal, and a group of men and women who were scavenging through the wreckages for useable resources.

It had struck the Dark Elf as quite odd that they chose now to get their rebuilding work under way. Several months had passed since Kvatch had been liberated, and in the depths of winter it was probably not a good idea, especially considering the likelihood of rain in this particular area at this particular time of year. But they carried on working through the thick of it, all of them together, a great sense of spirit radiating from them. If she had been anyone else, she might have felt happy to be here, but she didn't. She only felt exceedingly uncomfortable.

Turner led her quickly despite his limp, seemingly having learnt the layout of the ruins back to front during his week or so here. Idari had no idea how long he had been conscious, but she suspected it was at least a couple of days. He stopped at the very edge of the city, where the walls turned a corner and darted off in another direction. Here the houses were not as ruined as those in the centre, but none of them were all in one piece. From here none of the citizens reconstructing the town could be seen clearly, though sounds of hammering and shifting wood reached their ears easily.

The Argonian gestured to the house in the very corner, which appeared to have been burnt fairly severely, and partly flattened as a large section of rubble from the walls had crashed through it. "This," he said with a vague prideful smile. "Was the home of Etienne Renault and his family. You might have met his sister once… She was a Blade who was killed on the same day as the Emperor. Anyway, Etienne lived here with his wife and their four children, and on the day of the attack he found himself separated from his three eldest in the panic. Now they were not old, by any standards, but old enough to know that they at least ought not to stand in the middle of the street and let the daedra kill them. Etienne sent his wife and youngest child from the city, and they were found by Savlian Matius and taken to safety, but then Etienne ran back to find the other three.

"People here often recount how they saw him running past with only a silver sword in his hand, and roughly twenty-five of them claim to owe him their lives. He found his children together, one wounded by a clannfear quite severely, but all still alive, and took them to safety by climbing over the city walls right here, where it had collapsed onto their house. And then, having saved his family, he ran back into the city to help others. He was killed only hours after his sister. The bravery of his whole family is quite astounding and truly remarkable, but the saddest thing is that an hour later the gate was closed and Kvatch was liberated… Fate is so unkind sometimes…" He sighed deeply, looking pointedly at the Dunmer for any kind of response, constructive or not.

Idari frowned slightly and looked about, trying to focus on anything except what he had pointed out. She was not in the mood for listening to sob stories and yet… There was something oddly respectable about what he had described – a man had lain down his life, first for his family, and then for his fellow citizens, with blatant disregard for his own personal safety. It was foolish; it was beyond foolish. But his sister had died a hero's death too… "Was the purpose of your telling me this to point out that I could have saved him, or that I could have saved his sister?" she snapped instinctively. Perhaps it was not that she was cold-hearted, but perhaps it was because she could not convey what she was thinking in a manner deemed appropriate.

The Argonian shook his head, rolling his eyes. "No, it wasn't. There are still three more places I want to show you though, so you might see the point of all this before today is up." He seemed determined in this fact, strangely so. Idari didn't quite understand why he cared…

Reaching the next location, Turner explained, involved a quick climb over a pile of rubble or an extra ten minutes of walking to find their way around, so they scaled the partially burnt home together. The rain has washed away some of the damage and some of the blood, but the fact that people had obviously died in this building were unmistakable due to the blood-stained wood of the floorboards that had survived with relatively low fire damage. No amount of rain would remove it, and it sank so deeply into the wood that no amount of sanding would ever destroy the evidence of the massacre. In a way, it was rather like the lives of the survivors of the attack: they could cover it up and they could pretend that they didn't care, but after it that it would never be forgotten, and the mental scars would stay with them until death and accompany them all the way to Aetherius and back. But at least by then they would be at peace.

The Argonian stopped in the middle of the next street; a single stone remained untouched amongst the slightly marshy ground as a result of the rain, and the buildings in this area appeared to have taken a lot of damage, or at least more than the last set. The ones around the gate had been lost completely.

"This stone marks the place where a Nord man died to save over fifty people. His name was Fjori Blood-Song, they tell me, and he was a member of the Kvatch Fighters Guild, but he was also a Champion of the Kvatch Arena, and his fighting skills were admired far and wide. He stood here in the middle of the street and drew the attention of countless daedra as people around him ran for safety, including members of the Fighters and Mages guilds who later returned to help him and were killed. The survivors say he withstood being cripplingly outnumbered for anything up to two hours before he finally fell; apparently he could have given the Grey Prince a run for his money. I don't know, I never saw either of them fight…"

Idari shrugged. "The Grey Prince is not even that good at fighting," she pointed out, snapping again but not as violently. "He just appears to be resistant to normal weapons and some schools of magic. That's why people think he's unkillable, but if the fighters weren't too stingy to buy decent weapons they could take him out easily."

"Oh, and then why aren't you the Grand Champion of the Arena?" Turner questioned, his voice thick with sarcasm.

"Because they are all idiots and would die too easily. Even you could make Grand Champion in a matter of weeks."

He chuckled. "Are you implying that my fighting is not apparently amazing? I'm alive, aren't I? So I take it you weren't impressed by this feat?"

She considered this briefly. "It is a feat, yes, and shows that the man had potential, but he still died, did he not? If he survived, and if he stood before me now, I would be impressed, but he isn't, so I'm not."

"Survivors?" A slightly sinister smirk played on his reptilian lips for a moment. "I will show you the survivors next then." He strode off towards the chapel and closer to the rebuilding effort, which seemed to have begun at the chapel and was spiraling outwards to encompass the residential areas of the city.

Idari frowned, following reluctantly. "I do not wish to know their sob-stories," she told him pointedly, folding her arms in annoyance. "You may show me the stones that mark the death place of any person you want to, but I do not want to speak with them."

The smirk broadened. "It was you that told Aden your name, not me."

He pushed the wooden door to the chapel open and gestured for her to enter, but she stubbornly stood outside, obviously uncomfortable. Turner took her by the arm and pushed her gently inside; she had no idea why she let him either, because he deserved to have his head cut off for that action. The people inside stopped what they were doing and looked up at her, causing her to step backwards into one of the only shadows that the strangely well-lit room contained.

Kvatch had put their chapel to good use. While the spire had snapped off, and the stones were in the process of being salvaged, they had stretched a tarpaulin over the void created in the ceiling to keep out most of the rain. There were roughly thirty of them sleeping in here, mainly those with children who had not yet been given a home, and those who were too old or too frail to sleep in the tents in the grounds of Castle Kvatch. She wondered why Oleta had a house when some of these people didn't, but apparently there was some logic to it that she failed to see. The people staying here were representatives of almost every race and almost all ages; they slept top-to-tail in cramped conditions around the altar which looked as though it was being used as a table for storing salvaged items and food on.

A wall ran around the stairs of the crypt so that people would not fall down, but it seemed as though there were other people staying down there too. Turner hopped up onto the wall with surprising agility in spite of his obvious injury and obvious clumsiness. "You don't need me to tell you who this is," he said to the people, gesturing to the assassin behind him. He seemed to be in his element now, relating these tales to her and to the people of Kvatch, and it made Idari horribly aware of how little she actually knew about him. "She's your saviour. People hail her as the 'Hero of Kvatch', but I have brought her here today for a different reason. Not for you to see her, but for her to meet you and perhaps to talk with you. I hope you will accommodate this request." He jumped back down, almost tripping but steadying himself in time, and then he crossed to where she appeared to be hiding away with a grin plastered on his face. "I believe these people here are the true 'Heroes of Kvatch'. You might have shut the gate for them, but look what they're achieved since you've been gone. Speak to them; they all have stories worth telling that even I could not portray so vividly."

"And if I don't wish to speak to them?"

"Somehow," the Argonian replied, leaning against the wall languidly as several of the townsfolk seemed to be beginning to approach her inquisitively. "I don't think that they're going to let you leave that easily…"

xxx

"What is it… about necromancers… and hills?" Seanturco grumbled slightly breathlessly as the pair approached the main entrance to Fort Teleman. This one was apparently in slightly worse repair than Fort Ontus, as almost the entire back wall had crumbled away with the tests of time, but other than that there was very little difference between this scenario and the previous one, save that perhaps this slope was not quite as high or steep due to the water of the nearby Panther River allowing vegetation to grow there.

Rush grinned, cracking her knuckles as she seemed to like to do before she went into anywhere she presumed she would see battle. "Don't write 'em off as necromancers just yet. It's more likely than you being a High Elf, but even that's not a given…"

The ex-vampire stopped walking and glared at her before taking hold of the whitewashed wall and pulling himself up towards the door, while the Orc just stomped up the hill as if it weren't there at all. It was strange how the doors to these forts managed to stay almost intact and yet the walls crumbled around them, but at the moment this was the least of their worries.

They had left their horses at the base of the hill and decided to climb on foot, much to Seanturco's annoyance. The Altmer pushed the door open firmly and slipped inside, taking advantage of the narrow sliver of light that was thrown across the rough stone floor, despite the dwindling daylight. Rush followed close behind him, drawing her claymore when her nostrils were assaulted violently by the stench of death that often accompanied necromancers.

"Watch yerself, goldenrod," she smirked. "I hope you're ready this time."

He rolled his eyes, pushing his sleeves up to his elbow. "Well perhaps if we intend to do this again you, in your _infinite_ wisdom, can find me a weapon or some kind?" he pointed out sarcastically.

"You'd be far more dangerous to yourself wielding a weapon you had no training in than running into battle without a weapon at all," Rush pointed out, seriousness in her tone for the first time. "If you would like some training before we are sent to the Battle of Bruma, then I suggest you ask me nicely." She strode away, casting a Detect Life spell to cope with the seriously lacking amount of light in the fort.

Seanturco did similarly, taking note of purple life signatures moving slightly in the distance, but for now apparently out of sight. The Orc stayed ahead of him as they tracked around the tunnels towards the hazy figures, her footsteps strangely quiet considering the amount of armour she was wearing right now. They drew closer, so close that they could almost hear the breaths they were taking, or the short, snappy conversations going on between them, or even see the whites of their eyes.

And no sooner were they that close, then it was over. A brilliant flash of light filled the room as lightning coursed from green gauntleted fingers and jolted through them before they even had enough time to draw breath. Three necromancers crumpled to the floor, electricity dancing on their corpses for a few seconds before dissipating away into the darkness.

"You would think they'd at least be a little bit watchful…" the Wizard muttered to himself as he stepped over the corpse of the first one.

"It's easy to grow complacent," the Battlemage told him, despite the fact that she knew very well that he hadn't been speaking to her in the first place. "Like certain people growin' complacent in a vampiric state, and then returning to their original form to find themselves unable to cope…"

"How did you know about that?" He froze, his tone defensive.

Rush smirked, but in the darkness her expression was hidden completely by her hood. "It's not too difficult to spot vampires," she explained vaguely. "You have nothin' to worry about."

"Yes, well keep it to yourself." A venomous aspect was audible now. "I don't want the world to know what happened to me."

"It's nothin' to be ashamed of," the Orc replied, striding away, a certain nonchalance about her. "You're one of the lucky few who made it back to the land of the livin', so don't go squanderin' it, alright?"

Seanturco said nothing in reply, following after her angrily. He couldn't actually tell whether his anger was directed at her or at the fact that she knew about his phase as a vampire and had neglected to tell him until now. He liked to think that nobody knew - nobody unnecessary at least - but it seemed as though he was at least partially horrifically wrong. Now he could only hope that nobody else had seen through his ruse quite so easily.

Renewing the Detect Life, the pair made their way almost silently through the tunnels that adjoined the room. They turned a corner slowly, a small sound filling the still air as their feet tapped rhythmically on the stone floor, and entered a larger cavern. A purple life signature alerted them to the presence of a necromancer, but not before he had noticed them, adopting a slightly crouched stance as he fired a spell at them and disappeared rapidly down a set of stairs to his left. Rush avoided the magic that had been thrown at her by simply stepping to one side before it smashed into the wall a short distance from where her chest had been a few moments earlier, while Seanturco retaliated with a bolt of lightning that missed as the necromancer jumped down two steps at once, almost tripping over himself to run away.

Suddenly, from nowhere, another spell coursed through the air towards them, missing the Altmer's head by an inch in an act of pure luck. A fireball. Not thrown from the running necromancer either, but from one who was stationed on the other side of the room, up another set of stone steps to a level of equal height to the one they were standing on now. The room was only lit by two wooden torches, so it was fairly easy to see _why_ the necromancer had missed, but from this distance his aim had been scarily accurate.

"Stay here," Rush growled, taking off towards the flight of steps to chase after the first one. "And for Malacath's sake, don't die!" The unmistakeable sound of her descending the stairs followed, and it was hard to tell exactly how many she was taking at once, but it sounded like a rather high number.

Seanturco retaliated; a simple spell thrown towards a purple life signature that had ample time to move and took the opportunity rather quickly. At least these necromancers seemed to have slightly higher intelligence levels than the last bunch had done.

Lights filled the caverns, accompanied by sounds of magic being flung and striking walls. Finally the wet squelch of a blade passing through flesh followed, and the gurgle of a dying man's final breaths echoed; the blade withdrawn, the body slumping to the floor as the man breathed his last. More spells were flung, but at such a distance that no ground was gained due to the ample time available to move aside when the magic set forth. The ex-vampire noticed another life signature climbing the stairs. Not quickly, but with an apparent motive. He fired back at the necromancer in order to distract the man from the rather ostentatious Orcish woman sneaking towards him, an almost instantaneous return spell causing him to have to hit the floor to avoid it, since his attention had been slightly lacking due to his focus on what Rush was doing. It had almost been a costly mistake.

The smaller purple blob flickered dangerously before fading away completely before a course female voice called across to him: "You comin' goldenrod?"

He didn't reply, walking down the stairs as calmly as he could manage, stepping over the corpse of the slightly mangled necromancer at the base with as much disdain as he could manage. It was the body of a male Breton who was perhaps middle-aged, but the black robes covering every inch of him made it fairly difficult to tell any more. He ascended the stairs on the other side with a large dose of hesitance, because, even though there were no more living necromancers in the immediate vicinity, he couldn't help dreading what Rush was going to have to say about it.

"You need to watch yerself," she pointed out in a matter-of-fact manner, not a hint of malice in her tone. "You don't have super strength or super speed anymore, and you're not resistant to magic or Paralysis either… In fact, as a _High Elf_, you could say you're one of the most vulnerable to it on this damned planet. Don't take stupid chances. You've only got one life."

Seanturco scowled. "Well, it was your theatrics that caused me to lose focus!"

"You can blame me all you like, but you still need to watch yerself a bit more carefully."

"I am of higher rank than you," he snapped. "I shouldn't need to remind you of that." He attempted to brush past her, but her arm shot out and caught ahold of his shoulder, holding him perfectly still.

"You listen to me, goldenrod," she growled, sounding slightly annoyed for the first time. She had his other shoulder now, and her yellow eyes were glaring. "Get. A. Grip. You're not a vampire anymore, and any one of these pathetic necromancers could kill you with one spell if they hit you hard enough. You can kill any of them though, so you need to pay attention. You might be a higher rank than me, but my job is to protect your sorry arse, so I suggest you buck your ideas up and listen to me fer a change, or I'll _let_ you die and send my deepest condolences to Traven with the rest of your body."

Seanturco cleared his throat indignantly, pushing her hands from his shoulders when her grip lessened slightly. He brushed his robes off in an impertinent way and strolled around her, renewing his Detect Life spell before he forgot about it. '_Keep alert. Keep vigilant._' Who was she to talk to him like that? Why, if Traven hadn't made it so very clear that they were stuck together until the bitterest end then well… Well… He didn't know what he'd do, actually; he hadn't thought that through very well.

Calming himself down as he walked down the corridor, he tried to keep alert to his surroundings. The first thing he noticed, and probably the most obvious thing of all, was that Rush was following him and was perhaps a few paces behind. He didn't intend to trip up over something small with her watching over him so closely. The embarrassment of being lectured by an _Orc_ was simply too humiliating to imagine. Secondly, a life signature. This one appeared to be pacing around, so perhaps the owner of said life signature had heard the battle that had taken place in the other room and felt cornered and trapped way down this end of the passageway, or perhaps it was nothing. The Altmer turned himself invisible, thoroughly determined to prove that confounded battlemage wrong.

Sneaking, it has to be said, was not the forte of the rather young, and rather inexperienced ex-vampire Altmer Wizard who approached the necromancer now, but apparently she was even less watchful than he was, turning at the sounds that his feet allowed to ring out but then returning to her pacing as if she had been imagining it. She was a Breton too, but a relatively tall one, her dark blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail off her face while her black hood sat untouched and unused on her shoulders. She looked agitated at something, but something about the aura she gave off made Seanturco believe that she was probably perfectly capable in defending herself using magic. That, and, of the two of them, she probably had the physical advantage now he was a High Elf again…

Before he could think what he was doing, he had drawn the iron dagger than he had once used to end the life of an Altmer shopkeeper into his right hand and stuck it into the flesh of her neck, a look of mild displeasure crossing his features as blood gushed out of the wound and she felt to the ground, retching in pain. His invisibility dispersed, and he turned to see Rush leaning against the wall of the fort with one eyebrow raised.

"Inventive," she smirked, stepping over the corpse casually. "Not something I would have expected from you at all."

He frowned at her words and looked down at his own hands to see a thick red substance dripping from his golden hands. The gravity of what he had done, now for the second time, hit him hard and he staggered backwards away from the corpse, right into the battlemage as she gazed at a door in front of her with a queer expression on her face.

"Never regret nothin'," Rush said, a smile tugging at her lips. "If you hadn't done it, I would have done. She was doomed to die the minute she donned that black robe with that red skull on it. Come on. Door says: Order of the Black Rose. Sounds Ominous. Promising, huh?"

A swift kick shattered the lock that was holding the door shut, and in the process splintered much of the wood around it. It wouldn't have made much difference in alerting the necromancers to their presence anyway, and from what they could see, and from what they knew of the necromancers, there was nowhere else for them to be. Necromancers were unrelenting and hideously stupid, and had no perception of death because they dealt with it every day of the year. They lived death, they breathed death; heck, some of them probably even ate death. It didn't matter though. This pair of Mages Guild lackeys had only come here for one reason: to find Irlav Jarol and thus retrieve the Bloodworm Helm.

"If Jarol's alive, he'll be in here," Seanturco muttered under his breath, aware that the Orc could hear every single word he was uttering. "And if he's not, I suppose he'll be in here too." There was still shock in his voice from the murder he had commited just now, but he masked it fairly effectively. After all, it wasn't the first time he'd killed someone. "I will attempt to find him. You can do whatever you wish... take out necromancers, search for Jarol yourself... Anything you want."

He slipped back into an invisible state, though he was aware that his right hand that still clutched the bloodied knife was shaking like a leaf, and that anyone listening carefully could probably have heard his ragged, erratic breaths a mile away. He didn't really care anymore. He had put his first murder down to circumstance, down to being a vampire, but now he'd done it again... His parents would not be impressed at all. What if assassins came to recruit him? How did one reject the offer of a deadly assassin? Simple: one did not.

In the distance, both Seanturco and Rush could hear noises. Strange, eerie noises like magic bounding off of walls or corpses being mangled. So perhaps the necromancers were practicing their craft. Percularily enough, the Wizard was sure that, despite his invisibility and her lack of it, Rush was probably the least likely to be noticed of the two of them, due to his own current physical and emotional state betraying him from a mile away. It would probably have been better to sit this one out, but that was something he was not prepared to do.

It didn't seem to matter, however, when a reamarkable sight met their eyes. A dremora stood over the corpse of what looked like a necromancer, his blade dripping with crimson blood onto the grey stone floor. What was a daedra doing in a fort filled with necromancers? It didn't look summoned either, and didn't appear to be doing anybody's bidding but its own. Rush was already on it, apparently, living up to her name as she ran to battle the creature and Seanturco hastily slipped around it, following the tunnel alone while shrouded in his invisibility.

Around the corner he spotted one daedric corpse, a daedroth, which provided him with all the decisive evidence he needed to reach the conclusion that they weren't summoned at all. Had an Oblivion gate opened up nearby? Had something, somewhere gone horribly wrong in the boundaries between Nirn and Oblivion? He didn't care to know.

He ran, his heart pounding, past more corpses of necromancers, something that looked like a scamp that had been ripped apart by some undead monster, a living but weakened clannfear. The Wizard put an end to the clannfear with a spell, breaking his invisibility and giving away his position for only a moment before he renewed it. Finally he reached a large, open cavern with a high ceiling that was almost too dark to see across.

Seanturco stepped forward cautiously, a Night-Eye spell providing him with enough scope to see the entire way across the room unhindered by the extreme lack of light. In truth however, he probably would have rather not seen across the room.

There were a few necromancers here and there, though they were all dead and disfigured almost beyond recognition of having at one stage resembled a man. At the far end the corpse of a man lay motionless in a pair of white robes that were flecked with blood, though he didn't appear to have been ripped apart by daedra as with the rest of them. It was Jarol, Seanturco was sure of it, and the lack of the purple life signature there confirmed the worst: he was dead. At his feet lay a small satchel, presumably what he had used to carry the Bloodworm Helm with him, and hopefully not already emptied by the necromancers. Disturbingly however, despite their superior numbgers, the necromancers seemed to have done very little to harm the daedra who had attacked them. Over the corpse of Irlav Jarol stood a creature that might have resembled a man if his hulking form hadn't been covered in thick blue skin that definitely was not the fault of the Night-Eye spell, despite its tendencies to turn everything blue. It wore nothing but a red loincloth and a metal talisman of some designs, strange tattoos covering his wrists, his biceps and his ankles and two vicious looking horns sprouting from his head to make him look like a hideous being.

And Seanturco had read about his kind during his studies over the years - the Xivilai.

The Xivilai served Mehrunes Dagon alone. They resembled humanoids, but they were anything but. They had innate magical power which they could tap into readily, particularly their ability to summon their underlings, the clannfear, from Oblivion to fight with them. Their skin was resistant to most magicka, and tough enough to resist most blades. And in short? An Altmer with an iron dagger had no chance whatsoever in taking this creature on and winning.

But he needed that Helm...

Where was Rush? She might not even survive this, but she had more hope than Seanturco did, and he knew it. The Orc, however, was nowhere in sight. Perhaps that dremora had finished her off...

A mad dash. That was the plan, despite the fact that the Xivilai could probably already see him, hear him and smell him, and was just waiting for him to run into a close enough range to rip him to a zillion and two pieces. Though it wasn't as though the unfortunate ex-vampire had much more to lose or much further to fall at that precise moment, and he'd already died once before... This death would at least be more pleasant.

Before he allowed himself to think it through any more thoroughly, Seanturco was running for all his life was worth, but not away like he felt he ought to be, but _towards_ the uncertain destiny that lay before him. He felt eyes on him, and could almost hear the rippling muscles of the Xivilai turning to face him. The beast could probably break him like a toothpick. He carried on running, his heart pounding in his ears and his lungs burning for oxygen that they felt deprived of...

_This would be so much easier if I were a vampire..._

This time, he almost let himself laugh at the stay thought. He probably would have done, had the circumstances not involved him running for his life _towards_ a gigantic daedric _thing_ to get a _bag_ for some idiot Breton who would never understand exactly what he went through to get it. Even if he did survive this.

Scooping down, the Wizard took hold of the bag securely and picked it up, not sparing a moment to check what was or wasn't inside. He leapt over Jarol's corpse, almost stumbling a tad on the landing, aware that there was at least _something_ in the bag, even if it wasn't exactly a given that he had the _right_ thing in the bag. He noticed that the Xivilai appeared distracted however, because with its long legs it could probably have reached him in about two long bounds if it had really wanted to.

_Rush_.

Of course she had distracted it, rolling on in at the last minute as always, to save his skin for the... what was it - the third time now? Seanturco turned on the spot suddenly to see the Orc dive aside as the Xivilai threw some kind of magic at her. It was taller than her by almost a foot, and now her thick armour looked decidedly inadequate, but she didn't appear in any way concerned by this, continuing to dive as if it were a regular occurance... Which, he thought, didn't really make much sense.

He was having difficulties hearing what was going on, due to his heartbeat taking almost free reign over his ears, but he imagined that the room must be filled with magical aura, the crackling of electricity, the roaring of fire. The mer suddenly found himself feeling something unusual for him; what was it? Gratefulness? It was an alien emotion, but he was sure that this was what it had to be.

Seanturco watched as Rush took an offensive stance and slashed at the Xivilai. It looked like a wild thrashing, but it was obviously swift and controlled beyond anything that he could possibly imagine, and it hit home with just enough force to cause the daedra to reel backwards a couple of steps, its angered growl loud enough to take precedence over the now subsiding ringing in his tapered golden ears. The creature threw a punch at her, and despite her jumping backwards to avoid most of the blow, it still left a rather sizeable dent in her armour, staggering her for a single step.

The ex-vampire didn't see what happened next. It felt like the blink of an eye, but in truth it was the length of time it took for him to realise that his Night-Eye spell had expired and renew it in time for an enchanted claymore to emerge through the back of the Xivilai's chest, a scream to accompany it that was so terrible that it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. The Orc withdrew her sword apathetically and strolled over to one of the necromancers, ripping a piece of fabric from their robe, muttering a few words to nullify the enchantment, and wiping her blade clean before tossing the rag back down and turning to her ward.

"Daedra blood is pretty corrosive," she explained. "Couldn't risk leavin' it there..."

"How did you just...?" Shock was the primary sound in his tone right now, for the first time in a while the snobbishly degrading element had vanished. "I thought that Xivilai were resistant to weapons."

Rush chuckled, and held her blade out to him in one hand, muttering words that caused blue flames to dance up and down it. "Enchanted weapons can cut through pretty much anythin', if you push 'em hard into the buggers. I see Jarol's dead. I expected as much. Do you have the Bloodworm Helm?"

The question caught him a little off guard, but eventually he nodded and reached into the satchel. "I suspect that I do."

Sure enough, he drew out something that closely resembled the skull of some kind of creature, perhaps a bear or something native to a distant land. It had seen many of battle, judging by the scars of wear adorning it, a silvery sheen about it despite the lack of lighting in the large cavern.

"Looks promisin'," Rush shrugged, a smile on her lips again for some unknown reason. "I reckon we ought to head back to the Arcane University now, and no doubt Traven will have somethin' else that he can't do by hisself and will entrust to you." When he hesitated for a moment she turned to face him once more. "You did alright in here. I'll have to remind you to get a grip whenever we go anywhere else, huh?"

* * *

_Author Note: This took AGES. Some of you already know, but some of you don't: my laptop caught a SuperVirus called Antivirus Antispyware 2011, which very nearly deleted every single file I have on there. Luckily, this beauty was saved, but I'd lost a week and a half in the process. Yeah, the end was a tad abrupt, I'll admit, but I was paranoid people would think I was dead, the chapter was already quite long, and my mother is bugging my to go to bed since its midnight, and beginning is full of random descriptions because I was in Poetic!mode. Some of you let me down on reviews last chapter; to those you you who didn't: I thank you from the bottom of my heart._

_However, also in those two weeks, I camped in the Ashdown Forest with my army cadets, I was in the play that I wrote, I went on a Pilgrimage, I lived through the single busiest week of my life ever. And I did it without my laptop. I mourn the loss of it, but I was survive because Brothers in Arms lives on. Don't write me off just yet._

_The still living, still breathing, still large as life: ~ARTY~_


	40. Ambush

_800ninjas – Yes yes, I hate the virus too. Luckily, I live with a resident computer genius, who managed to save it. Others are not so lucky. On your main note: Thank you :)__ It means a lot to me when people take time to review, however much or however little they have to say. Toodle-oo ~ARTY~_

* * *

_Chapter 40_

It had taken over two hours of subtle extraction for Idari to finally remove herself from the company of the citizens of the once great Kvatch. By the end of it her mood had taken a turn for the she-didn't-even-know, and whether she felt better or worse than she had done before she had entered the chapel was a complete mystery to everyone, causing her to walk around in something of a daze, her red eyes averted from the attention of anybody nearby as they examined the earthen floor as if to find some kind of meaning of life written in its puddled surface.

Turner noticed the sudden fluctuation in her mood and followed her closely, regaining his strength apparently much quicker when she was around, though that was probably a dreadful cliché and it was probably all in his head anyway. He had heard them pour out their sob-stories to her, and he had watched as she shrank away from them, obviously trying to avoid allowing her temper be the end of them. He was surprised she could be so restrained, after the havoc he had seen her cause in the past at something even more trivial than this.

He caught her beside the statue of Antus Pinder. It was a miracle that the stonework had even survived the battle, but somehow it had pulled through; maybe it was because it was such a great beacon of hope for the people of Kvatch, or maybe it was just luck. As well as he knew the Dunmer, she still managed to surprise him sometimes, and now, as she stared at the statue with a queer intensity, was one of those times.

"Antus Pinder tried to save this city once," the Argonian explained as he walked up level to her. She didn't even react to his presence, her red eyes fixed solely on the man that was depicted there. "He was a guard - a captain - and he defended them well. It wasn't enough though. They lost."

Idari's eyes were fierce and unwavering, piercing deep into the statue. "Why did they honour him if he didn't win?"

"Because sometimes it's the effort that people put in that's important."

His words stung her and she recoiled instinctively, stepping away from him with an alien feeling of vulnerability. "And they wish to...?" She started, but she trailed off after only a few words.

Turner smiled briefly, understanding exactly what she meant. "You said something about a contract...?"

The Dark Elf did a double take. "You said four places," she pointed out, her voice wavering a little. "I only count three." She held up three fingers as if to reinforce this fact to herself more than to him. It made her seem like a young child at the moment, and frankly the Argonian was not too happy with the situation either. She was usually the one drowning in rife maturity, but here the situation was reversed and the lack of the burden of responsibility did not suit the Silencer well.

"You've seen enough for one day," he told her. "You're already beginning to look confused beyond reconciliation... Are you-?" He stopped himself, aware that he had no idea how she would react to this question, even after all the months that they'd known each other. "Are you alright?"

"I-" She had forgotten how long it had been since somebody had actually cared about how she was feeling. "I think we should go to Cloud Ruler Temple first..." she replied slowly, avoiding his question. "Martin should have figured it out by now..."

"I asked you how you were, not where you wanted to go next." Turner folded his arms with a frown, and for a moment all of his attention was focused on her. She didn't like attention and he knew it.

Her right hand moved instinctively to the hilt of her silver shortsword and her fingers tightened around it, ready to stop him staring whatever the cost to his life; but was she really ready to kill him? The answer was no, of course, and she relinquished her grip with a heavy sigh.

She had just opened her mouth to speak when a young voice called out to her, causing her to snap around. Aden ran towards her and for the first time she saw how painfully thin he was. Most of them here were horrifically malnourished, but Aden's height did little more than make him look like a skeleton. His little feet padded up to her noisily, his bare limbs causing the slightly damp ground underfoot to squelch with every step and splattering mud up his legs.

"I made you a statue!" he said excitedly, grabbing her hand in his childish innocence. "Come see!" He dragged her along after him, and she was ill-suited to do anything but follow him. When he noticed her reluctance he turned back and shot her a cheeky grin. "Come on! It's only little."

Turner was still stood next to the statue of Antus Pinder, quietly chuckling to himself. Then it dawned upon him that this might be the only time anybody ever built a statue to remember this assassin and settled firmly upon following at a safe distance. He doubted she would kill Aden for this, but he wasn't so certain that his own safety was a given, especially as he had noticed how ready she had been to lop his head off a few moments ago. He was fairly sure, however, that if she ever planned to kill him she would have done in the ample opportunities she had had before now, a fact that sincerely made him wish he knew what has happening inside her head.

The air around them was still and close, causing the whole place to feel uncomfortably warm, despite the clouds blocking out any signs of the sun. In truth, it was unlikely that the weather pattern in Kvatch would ever truly be restored. Sounds of shouting filled the air as soldiers oversaw the building of yet another temporary house in the eastern half of the city, aided by just about anybody who didn't find themselves so traumatised that they could barely leave the comfort of the chapel. Men and women, young and old, and every single race that you could think of gathered in the streets to take care of this dilemma of the housing issue. Staying in the chapel was all well and good, but living in such close proximity made the entire building a breeding ground for diseases that even an expert healer such as Oleta was beginning to have trouble controlling.

Aden dragged Idari past them and she turned her head away, as if it would do something to shield her identity. It wasn't as if any of them had seen her face before now, and it wasn't as if there were many people in black leather armour walking around Kvatch today. Did these people here represent the survivors of Kvatch better than the people in the chapel? They probably did, as these were the people who could carry on and make do and ignore the inevitably overwhelming sorrow in their hearts. There were a score of them here, an Altmer in a tattered guard uniform directing them while consulting a man so old he looked like he could collapse at any minute. The citizens hoisted their joints up to make what vaguely resembled a house, and then a female Nord fixed them together using magic, the process repeated until the structure stood alone.

Idari found herself wondering why they didn't build the walls on the ground and push them up that way, but the answer was staring her in the face: the ground was far too wet to do that.

Aden dragged her away before she saw what happened next.

"Here!" he announced, an innocent smile on his face as he pointed to the statue in question. It was leant against the trunk of a very blackened tree, one of the few bits of vegetation that appeared to have remained standing and was still identifiable as a tree.

It was perhaps two feet high, and built out of scraps of wood held together with rusty pieces of metal. At best it resembled a stick figure with no real identifying marks, but above, scrawled on the tree in charcoal, were the words: 'The Heroe of Kvatch. Eydarreee'. The words affected the Dunmer more than she would have liked to admit and she was struck silent as the small Redguard boy radiated a strong sense pride.

"That's really nice, Aden," Turner admitted as he arrived, looking from it to the real Hero of Kvatch and back. "I think your aunt was looking for you..." he said, pointing back towards the castle which was now completely obscured from their vision by rubble. "Idari and I have to leave Kvatch to save some other cities now, but we'll be back, OK?"

The boy bit his chapped bottom lip hard, but then a smirk pulled at his features. "Alright," he said, licking the small amount of blood that he had managed to draw from his lip off of his face. He ran away happily.

"Let's go," the Argonian said in a low voice, resisting the temptation to put a hand on her shoulder and simply resolving to walk away. "I'm going to tell Oleta that we're leaving. I'll meet you... outside the gate, OK?"

Despite the slightly patronising edge to his tone, the Dark Elf hadn't appeared to notice and simply nodded absent-mindedly, her eyes still fixed on the pile of wood she saw before her. "Why do they...?" she trailed off, unable to form her sentences properly. "It wasn't just me. They... saved themselves, you know. There were only a few people left in the chapel when I came back a few weeks later. The rest were in the refugee camp, because they'd saved their own lives. All I did was..."

"It's not only you they idolise," Turner explained, his tone gentle. "They offered Savlian Matius countship and he refused. Oleta saved more lives than they can count up here, so they gave her one of the first houses they built. There's no doubt in my mind that they'll either be building a lot of statues soon, or they'll simply give up and carve out votive plaques... But you were the spearhead of it all. You went into the Oblivion gate and you closed it. Without you, there would be no Kvatch at all. You would do well to remember that." He left her then, striding away before she could react, the expression on her face changing from unreadable to thoroughly pained and back every few seconds.

In her mind, this idolisation of theirs was almost verging on inhumane. She hated it. She wished they'd stop. All she'd ever wanted was the leave Cyrodiil and return home to Morrowind, to Sadrith Mora, and now she was a hero, all alone in the middle of Cyrodiil with no hope of leaving until this blasted affair was over. She'd given Jauffre her word, and that was irrefutable in binding her to this province until everything ended. She would do a lot of things, she would break laws, break trusts, but she'd _never_ break her word. Never willingly, anyway.

Wrenching herself away from the crude statue before her, the assassin walked solemnly towards the gate of the city, choosing to climb over the wreckages rather than face meeting somebody on the way around them, the warmth of the air making her feel uncomfortable with every step she took and every piece of timber she scaled feel like a mountain. Perhaps it was her heavy heart that almost halted her progress, or perhaps it was her paradoxical existence that caused her to doubt everything.

Idari didn't care to know, whatever way life decided to treat her. Assassins took life, not saved it; these is no such thing as a hero assassin... She brushed every stray thought that that one statue had brought about to the back of her mind and she put on a brave face, a fierce face, for the people of Kvatch. If they knew her true nature then they would never have idolised her in the first place, and they never should have done, because Fate should have picked an appropriate 'Hero' to save this land that she cared nothing about.

At the gates of Kvatch her red eyes hit the ground and her pace quickened a little, sloshing mud up her legs as she walked with more speed than was necessary. She wanted to get away, and she was determined to do so, and she ignored the people who spoke to her as 'Hero of Kvatch' as she departed the partly reconstructed city. The stories of the people of this town had both touched her and terrified her because she knew what they thought she'd done, and because she knew that other cities had not been so lucky. Ald'ruhn was gone, perhaps Sadrith Mora, the only place she could call home, had been raised to the ground at the same time. Perhaps Red Mountain had exploded and wiped away any evidence of her existence, or killed her brother and left her alone.

Again she stopped herself, hands balled tightly into fists as she touched Shadowmere's mane. There were not many horses outside of the city, and probably many had been killed when the city had fallen, but any that had been here had striven to place themselves as far from the demon as possible, straining against their basic tethers until the soft leather almost snapped. For a being so formidable, the presence of the horse was almost calming to the assassin, and it grounded her, reminding her of her purpose. She was a hero, but she was an assassin as well, a killer, and killers did not do well saving lives.

Idari sprang lithely onto Shadowmere's powerful back to wait for the Argonian. She had no idea why she waited for him, or even why she had left him alive in the first place, but she was beginning to see his benefits. She would see to it that the Blades trained him when she was next in Cloud Ruler Temple, hopefully within the next few days, and then hopefully either this would be over, or she would have time to deal with things that were actually of any importance to her, like her contracts for Lachance that saw coins into her pocket after Phillida had taken everything she owned the day he had thrown her in the Imperial Prison. This entire mess was his fault, probably, because he put her in the wrong cell. Perhaps the real hero was still rotting in that prison… She didn't know, but Phillida had already paid for his mistake with the highest price of all. Fool.

Turner appeared and crossed silently to his black horse, taking up the reins and hoisting himself into the saddle with as much effort as it had taken him the very first time they had met. He had come far before his injuries, so hopefully he would spring back more quickly.

"Cloud Ruler Temple then?" he asked, his face contorted with silent pain for a few brief seconds before he regained what little composure he had.

Idari stared at him, her red eyes fierce for a time. "Yes," she said. Despite her glare, the words were surprisingly soft for the Dunmer. "If you don't yet feel up to leaving, you can stay here… I came to check you were alive. It's bad sport to let a comrade die."

"Then it's bad sport to let a comrade ride alone," the Argonian countered, a smirk appearing on his reptilian lips. "Pain is inevitable. If you've ever had your ribs kicked in by a vampire, your blood part drained, and your body thrown around like a rag-doll by a dying lich then you'd know what I mean." He put a hand on the hilt of the daedric sword that he had recovered from Oleta. "I should thank you for retrieving this. I would definitely be dead if this wasn't just about the best sword there is."

"It was nothing," she sighed, her heels jarring Shadowmere in the ribs so that he took off at a quick pace even from him until she forced him to slow just enough for the regular black horse, who by now seemed wary but not horrified of the purple stallion, to catch up. Silence loomed.

"I'm sorry if what you saw in Kvatch disturbed you…" Turner said after a time, his expression grim. "And I'm sorry if you don't enjoy their idolisation. I truly am. They practically idolised me just for knowing you."

The Dark Elf chuckled strangely; Turner feared she might have gone completely mad all of a sudden. "As you said in Kvatch, pondscum," she replied to him, her voice sounding mildly amused by this prospect. "It was I who told Aden my name, not you."

xxx

Despite everything that they'd been through, the Arcane University seemed to be the same as it always was. Mages bustled between classes with scrolls and potions to hand, or tended the alchemy garden, or chatted aimlessly amongst themselves about equally aimless things.

Rush and Seanturco stood in the courtyard that surrounded the Wizard's Tower and leant against the wall together. Anybody who saw them might have mistaken this for a friendship having formed between them, but the meaning of this action ran slightly deeper than that, perhaps too deep for either of them to see it properly.

In her hand, the Orc held a blade that was roughly the same length as her forearm, and with her bulky figure it looked like little more than a child's plaything. The Apprentices who walked past knew better than to ask questions about it though, and scurried away talking in poorly hushed voices about the peculiarity of these events. The Altmer listened to her words carefully, studying the blade, very aware that at any moment Raminus Polus was likely going to extract himself from the urgently called Wizards' Council meeting that Traven had called upon receipt of the knowledge that one of his most trusted advisors was a necromancer, and the other had been betrayed, and now both lay dead. There was, of course, the small matter that now the Council sat incomplete for the first time in years, but it seemed almost inconsequential in light of the situation.

"The enchantment on this blade is fairly standard," Rush explained to him, her full weight resting solely on the wall behind her. "It drains the health of whoever it hits by far more than just getting' cut ever would. I got a feelin' that the next place they send us is probably gonna get violent, so I wanna make certain you've got summin' to keep you alive…"

Seanturco nodded. "Noted," he said simply, taking the blade from her to hold it for himself. The weight felt strange to his ill-accustomed muscles, but it didn't overly burden them like Turner's sword had done the one time he had tried to lift it. And that had been _while_ he was a vampire. Did that make him terribly pathetic? That not even as a vampire did he have the strength to lift a daedric blade. He suspected so, and it was a cruel irony if ever there was one. "Do you…?" He stopped when she raised an eyebrow at him and folded her arms in anticipation of his question. "I mean, surely you must be as uncomfortable in this partnership as I am."

The battlemage shrugged, chuckling to herself when she noticed one of her ex-comrades giving her a strange look from the path below. "It makes no difference to me," she replied. "All you mages are the same: stuck up and careless. You try claiming you're not either of 'em and I'll show you some evidence that you're wrong." She paused a moment, and noticing the frown that crossed his face she decided to continue on regardless: "So, it's just my job to protect you… and if it weren't you, it'd be some other one, wouldn't it?"

"But surely, in my absence, you must have had some influence over choosing yourself a mage to protect? Surely…"

Rush looked him straight in the eyes, a strange grin on her face. "It was the mages' choice which battlemage they got." She seemed to be morbidly amused by this, and it was slightly disturbing for the High Elf to watch. "They were prepared to draw lots for who got me, but then they remembered you had been gone for a while and everythin' was solved in an instant. If you'da been here, you woulda got one of those other toffs over there," she pointed out, gesturing towards where two battlemages seemed to be pacing about for no apparent reason. There may have been a very real threat from inside the University, but no necromancer would expose themselves surrounded by some many powerful mages. "And I guarantee you that none of them woulda taken on that Xivilai in case they messed up their hair or summat. I went through trainin' with 'em, so I know 'em all fairly well. You can probably count yerself lucky, I guess…"

Seanturco frown deepened as he thought to himself. He had never quite considered it that way before, and, in a way, he probably was lucky, despite what he wanted to think about the Orc and her unusual ways. He opened his mouth to say something, "I–"

"Wizard Seanturco?" The voice of Raminus Polus impeded upon his thoughts without his permission and he growled instinctively, unfortunately just loud enough for his partner to hear and begin chuckling at him.

The mer in question looked up at him with a scathing expression on his face, and Rush saw that as her cue to depart the area, striding away towards the guard tower where most battlemages spent almost a year before they were assigned anywhere.

"Arch-Mage Traven is ready for you now," Polus grinned. He seemed almost blissfully unaware of the fact that, for the first time ever, Seanturco had been having a perfectly civil conversation with his partner and had been about to make some life-changing statements that he suspected, now that the moment was gone, he would never allow himself to say.

"Whatever." The High Elf brushed past him, fuming with annoyance at the interruption, and swept into the Tower Lobby with as much pomp and ceremony as he could muster. It was wasted though, as the Lobby stood empty and there was nobody to see it.

Everything here was the same as it had always been. It was strangely grounding to go around, fight necromancers, fight people you never thought could be necromancers, fight daedra over the corpses of necromancers, or people killed by necromancers, and yet come back to the exact same place that you had left behind all that time ago. Two wooden benches looked as sorry for themselves as usual; by now they were probably held together by magic because the guild were simply too stingy to replace them. Two counters stood either side of the round room, facing each other, a dangerously-close-to-the-edge stack of books on one that would probably descend to the floor at the very instant that somebody slammed the door a little too heavily, and on the other counter a selection of alchemical equipment, free for any idiot to walk in off the streets and steal. In fact, the University probably spent so much time replacing the things they kept on display that they couldn't find the spare change to replace either one of those potential death trap benches. A display case held three Grand Soul Gems for people to gawp at and wonder at how amazingly lucky the University were to own them, when in truth they were not that hard to come by, until you were a vampire and needed them. The lock on the display case had been so mangled by lockpicks that the Wizard Council had been fit to lock the case using magic, so that only the most talented of mages could break into the case and reveal the treasure. Finally, a portal covered in arcane symbols that probably held some ancient meaning that everyone had forgotten by now. It hummed with magical energy and the symbols appeared to glow as the Wizard drew near, even though he knew very well that they didn't.

He stepped on it, intoned an incantation and found himself a moment later in the Wizards Council Chambers. He would never understand this room with its stupidly large round table to seat five councillors on anything up to thirty chairs. Traven sat alone on the opposite side of the table, his face showing his age for probably the first time in many years. It was creased with lines of worry as he leant over a roll of blank paper, quill in hand, twisting the feather ever so slightly so that the ink did not drip in an almost subconscious manner. The rushing of air that accompanied the materialisation of one of his mages caused him to look up, startled, his blue eyes tired with black circles forming beneath them, and his white hair not quite combed to its usually perfection.

"Thank you for bringing back the dreadful news of Master-Wizard Caranya and Master-Wizard Jarol." He spoke flatly, as if lacking sleep to the extent that he sounded as if he were dead on his feet. A weak smile crossed his lips for a moment, before slipping away accompanied by a heavy sigh. "Because of your loyalty, the Council have agreed to have you promoted to the rank of Master-Wizard, but before we allow you to sit with us on the Council, there is more that must be done."

Seanturco nodded and took a seat opposite the Breton, awaiting his instructions with as eager an expression as he could muster, considering his current state of annoyance. "Conjurer gra-Yazgash and I are free to do your bidding, Arch-Mage." He spoke with just enough formality to stop himself sounding exceedingly rude.

"Yes, please inform Miss gra-Yazgash that we have promoted her to the rank of Magician…" Traven added, as if the thought has suddenly struck him. He looked back down at his paper, then up at the quill held in his right hand before laying the feather beside the parchment with some disdain, a droplet of ink falling to the table almost immediately. The Breton leant back in his chair momentarily before leaning forwards, fingers interlocked with his elbows resting on the table. "I know that you are aware of the betrayal of several of our guild members to Mannimarco. I have reason to believe you almost fell victim to a foul plot by one of the last to cross over, if you exclude…" He trailed off, unable to bring himself to use Caranya's name in this context.

"Falcar." That single word was enough to make Traven shift uncomfortably in his seat.

The Arch-Mage nodded hesitantly. "Indeed. Alas, my sources tell me that he has amassed himself a following, and is currently quite highly in Mannimarco's favour. He resides in the ruins of Silorn, southwest of here, taunting us with how close he can squirm towards our establishment, claiming we can do nothing to stop his precious 'King of Worms'. I have reason to believe he has come into possession of an object of extraordinary power, and if it were to fall into Mannimarco's hands then there is nothing we would be able to do to prevent his rise to absolute power over the magicka in Cyrodiil." Traven stopped, unsure of what to say next. "You have excelled yourself in routing out necromancers, so naturally you are the only one we would consider sending on this mission. You are to retrieve a Colossal Black Soul Gem, capable of holding the soul of the most powerful people, even Mannimarco himself, which will provide you with the ability to protect yourself from some of his most heinous spells, should you retrieve it."

Seanturco had nodded silently up until that moment, when a frown spread across his features. "Will it not need to be filled?"

The Breton's face paled just enough to be noticeable. "I will deal with that once we have it in our possession," he spoke, just calmly enough to make it sound convincing. "Falcar will no doubt be expecting you to turn up, after you thwarted Caran-" He stopped again, and took a moment to collect himself before continuing. "Therefore I have selected three battlemages to accompany you and your partner. I do not doubt that you could do this alone, but it is always better to be safe than sorry, is it not?"

The Altmer somewhat doubted that he could manage to fulfil any of what Traven seemed to claim that he could have done alone. So far he had done very little since turning into a vampire. Perhaps, before that had occurred, by now he could be powerful enough to stay alive for a sufficient length of time to do this alone, but now? He _was_ a good mage, and more than qualified for the tasks he was set, but what he lacked severely was the emotional capacity to carry out those tasks. And that was why he had Rush…

"You seem troubled, Master-Wizard," Traven said after a period of silence. Ironic considering this was coming from a man who had obviously not slept in about a week. "Are you perhaps thinking of a way to phrase your latest objection to your partnership?"

A wry smile twisted at Seanturco's golden lips. "No, magister, I am not." With only one man ranking above him in the University now, it was strange that he should still be calling someone 'magister' after all this time. "In fact, I consider that you might have given me the correct partner after all and I should probably thank you for doing so." The shocked look on the Breton's face warranted a brief chuckle. "You may not be aware, magister, but my life has been saved by that woman on two occasions now. She is a highly capable battlemage, and I do not believe the same could be said for any of the other candidates." Of course, Seanturco was more than aware that Rush would never get to hear him say this, but perhaps it was for the best. "The other battlemages… Their names?"

"Ah, yes," Traven nodded, sliding the blank piece of paper to one side to look at one underneath. "Three have been selected due to their superior skills: Evoker Iver, Journeyman Merete, and Magician Thalfin. They have been instructed to leave under Thalfin's able leadership, but there is a chance that they are still within the University. I regret to say that we cannot send anymore due to demands made by High Chancellor Ocato about the defence of the Imperial City, but it should prove sufficient."

"Very well," the High Elf replied, inclining his head ever so slightly as he rose to his feet from the chair and took a step backwards over the almost identical teleportation device. "We will return soon," he promised. "And we will avenge Vidkun, perhaps one of Falcar's many victims."

How strange it was that he was promising to kill people now! He never would have dreamt of it before, never in a million years. He had rattled off the teleportation spell before Traven had had any chance of reply and now he found himself standing alone in the Wizards Tower Lobby.

Leaving the round building swiftly, he found Rush leaning against the wall outside, a loaf of bread in one hand and an almost completely devoured apple in the other. "Where are we goin' now?" she asked, taking one final bite out of the apple before chucking it absentmindedly over her shoulder, a smile creeping onto her lips as the core hit one of the Apprentices on the head and he swore at her loudly.

"Somewhere named Silorn," he replied flatly, seeing that she also had apparently had time to find some kind of leather scabbard for the sword she intended upon allowing him to use since they had last spoken. "We're also to be accompanied by three battlemages that perhaps you know: Thalfin, Iver and Merete… Though there's a chance they've already left, but who knows? If you've heard of Falcar, this is his doing, and we need to retrieve a special Colossal Black Soul Gem from him. I have a feeling that Traven has some sort of plan…"

"Sounds simple," Rush admitted, offering the loaf of bread to him. "I know that ruin, and it's only a coupla hours ride from here so we should head out. Dunno about the others. Never did like Thalfin lordin' it over the rest of us when we arrived here… Knowin' 'er, they probably left as soon as Traven told 'em to go, and knowin' Traven, that were probably longer ago than he decided to let on."

Seanturco accepted the proffered loaf with a small smile and began to systematically tear it to pieces in his hands without even realising what he was doing. "We should get going too then. Are you ready to leave?"

"You're supposed to eat that bread," the Orc pointed out, smirking. "Yes, I'm all set, but you need ta eat summat, 'cause I know fer a fact that you ain't been eatin' since we left here last time."

It caught him off-guard, the way she sounded like she actually cared about what happened to him, just enough for him to notice what he was doing and stuff a piece of bread unceremoniously into his mouth before realising what he had done and blushing in embarrassment, causing her to chuckle. "I appreciate your concern," he said, turning away so that his flushed face could not be seen. "But I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Let's get going…"

xxx

A call rang around Cloud Ruler Temple that two figures were approaching, and Jena knew that this could only mean one thing. It almost drew a smile from her, despite the immense seriousness of the fact that she could not abandon her sentry post outside the Great Hall until somebody came to relieve her of her duties.

Still, she was undeniably happy when she realised that two figures meant that the Argonian had survived his injuries from Miscarcand.

Grandmaster Jauffre had been livid with her when she had returned alone, despite the fact that she had brought him the Great Welkynd Stone and news of their success. It was irresponsible of her, he had said, to leave _that woman_ walking around Cyrodiil unattended, and despite Martin's pleas with him, the old Breton had been unshaken in his beliefs that she ought to be reprimanded for this insubordination. Her sentry shift had been made longer, and later, and she was placed on the graveyard shift in the extreme hours of the morning, leaving her very little time for sleep when he insisted upon calling the Blades for training at absurd times.

When the call went out, Jena noticed that both Jauffre and Martin appeared from their respective sides of the Temple almost simultaneously. The Heir had been so engrossed in his translations since acquiring the third ingredient for the ritual that he had almost neglected to perform even the most basic of life functions, including eat and sleep, and it was beginning to show as lines darkened his still strangely youthful face for the first time. Jauffre looked as though he were in a foul mood, and perhaps he had figured out who these visitors were too, though neither of them were Blades and therefore he had next to no authority over them.

The gate was opened and the two figures entered, the Dunmer on horseback while the Argonian preferred to dismount and walk the horse up the stone steps instead. It was probably for the best; only a being of innate misfortune could be struck with the spell of a dying lich who he had killed quite by accident. Jena noted his limp, but other than that he appeared unharmed by this experience. The Blade stood smartly to attention, her expression masked with a veil of seriousness, but inwardly it was taking most of her effort not to smile.

"Welcome back," Martin greeted them hastily when he noted that the Grandmaster's mouth was open and he appeared to be prepared to give a lecture at any second. The Heir turned to the Argonian. "I trust you have recovered well?"

Turner appeared a little shocked at having been addressed by the Heir to the Septim throne directly, but perhaps it was just that he had yet to adjust to the cold after being in Kvatch all this time. "Yes, Sire," he replied, inclining his head politely. He looked as if he wanted to elaborate on this answer, but he said nothing more.

The Imperial smiled warmly. "That is always good news; but please call me Martin. As a priest, the largest honour I ever got was being called 'Father' by the children on occasion. How does Kvatch fare?" The concern in his voice was undeniable, but unsurprising considering that he had been present during the raid. It turned out that many of the people in the city still didn't know what had become of Martin, as Turner had discovered quite soon after he had awoken. The news had come as a bit of a shock to the few who found out.

"The city recovers slowly. They have rebuilt roughly twenty homes, and the rest lodge in the chapel. The people are very resourceful. There is no doubt in my mind that they will pull through easily."

Martin nodded sadly. "They have always been a strong people. I will remember them in my prayers."

"Any news of the fourth ingredient?" Idari demanded agitatedly. She was wearing the black robe again, despite what it represented, to shield herself from whatever cold she wasn't prepared to expend her magicka on. It seemed as though she were in a foul mood for some reason that Jena could not place, though judging by the way she had cut across the Emperor-to-be's words, it was likely that she wasn't comfortable with talking about Kvatch.

The Heir's face darkened almost instantly. "I don't think you're going to like this one," he replied cryptically. "I don't like it, Jauffre doesn't like it, Countess Carvain most certainly won't like it…"

"Spit it out." The venom in her tone was unwarranted and unexpected, and several people inched away from her on instinct. Turner stayed put though. He could probably deal with her if it came to it.

"The fourth ingredient is the opposite to the Great Welkynd Stone. I should have seen it sooner. We have the blood of the Nine, and an artefact from the Daedra, so why should this be any different? We need a Great Sigil Stone." He paused for breath, and it seemed as though nobody else was breathing at the time. "So the plan is…"

"Great Sigil Stones come from Great Gates, if I am not mistaken?" There was a questioning tone in her voice, but it was most definitely rhetorical. "And the fact that Countess Carvain will not agree to the plan shows that you intend to allow a Great Gate, such as the one that ruined Kvatch, to open up outside her city. I will ask you this now, Martin Septim, are you prepared to deal with the massive loss of life that _will_ be brought about if this plan goes ahead? Are you prepared to go down in history as the man who allowed a city to fall for your own whims?"

A glint of amusement was clearly visible in the Heir's cold blue eyes for a fraction of a second. "Bruma will not fall. We have reinforcements from all cities but one, and we have supplementary fighters from the Mages Guild and Fighters Guild. And we have you. You know how to deal with these Oblivion gates better than anyone. The information we gathered from Mythic Dawn spies that we captured in Bruma states that the attack will take place in approximately two weeks time, and of course messengers will be sent to Countess Carvain to inform her of the situation soon enough…"

He paused and glanced at Jauffre, who nodded as if he understood some unspoken message that the Imperial was conveying to him. "You're free to leave, but the suggestion is that you return after a week. We are certain of the week of attack, but not the day, and we wish to be ready for it whenever it happens. We have enough soldiers, and we are ready enough, to hold them off for a few hours, but not for days. The daedra of Oblivion are limitless, and the armies of Cyrodiil are not."

Jena watched as the Dunmer's red eyes began to bore into the ground a few feet away from the Grandmaster's feet. Most people noticed because their eyes were fixed on her, but the few that didn't were staring intently at Martin to see if he was planning to continue. A select few glanced out across the scenery down to the city as if it were the last chance they would ever get to see it, even though there was still hope. There was always hope.

"So be it," she said, her Cyrodilic accent dropping for a moment so that her voice was thickly distinguishable to Morrowind. "We'll return…" Her accent wavered now, somewhere on the brink between the two, as if two halves of herself were doing battle for dominance inside of her. "Soon enough." Cyrodilic now, clearly and truly. She had noticed the slip in her accent and now her confidence sounded as if it had been knocked. Pushing Turner a step forward Idari continued: "Train him in combat before the battle."

The Argonian snapped around to face her in shock but said nothing. She had saved his life, true, but that was plain camaraderie; this however, was different in so many ways that he could hardly count. The clanking of armour only went to prove that a few of the Blades appeared to have recoiled in shock too.

Jauffre sighed. "There is no time. If you wish him trained, take him with you and do so yourself. That is the only advice I can offer at this time."

"So be it," she repeated, her teeth gritted now. "There is no reason for us to remain here." Crossing to the demon stallion, she sprang onto his back deftly, throwing a withering glance at the crowd who had appeared to see them and stormed out of Cloud Ruler angrily, the black cloak she was wearing billowing. Turner had no choice but to take up Snowdrop's reins and walk her down the stairs as swiftly as possible, before she worked herself up to returning with even more anger than she had left.

"She doesn't appear to be in a good mood today…" the Breton sighed, rubbing his bald head with a gauntleted hand as he stated the obvious. "If there's one thing I can assure, Argonian, it's that nobody here would willingly find themselves in your position right now."

xxx

Seanturco and Rush approached the Ayleid ruin of Silorn on foot for the last part of the journey, because horses would draw unwarranted attention from any patrolling necromancers, or so the battlemage said. Nevertheless, the ex-vampire was not too impressed by this prospect, even though the bluntness of her logic did seem to make sense to him partly. Luckily there was no hill this time, so Falcar obviously _was_ teasing the Guild with how nearby he could place himself and his minions.

It wouldn't have surprised either of them. They both knew that the ex-leader of the Cheydinhal guildhall was a right piece of work.

A quick sweep with a Detect Life spell alerted them to the other battlemages that Traven had sent to aid them, who were hiding behind one of the crumbling walls in a seemingly ample position to ambush the necromancers, should they attempt to escape the ruin. The pair approached cautiously, but were still met by three rather jittery battlemages attempting to draw their weapons rather unsuccessfully at the sound of intruders. Recognising the Orc, the mages stilled their fears and the one that Seanturco presumed was Thalfin approached.

The woman before him was a Bosmer, making her naturally shorter than all the others who had accompanied her. Her skin was the colour of dark cream, making it darker than most of the members of her race, though her face was shrouded by the shadow of the standard mages hood she wore over her face which was presumably enchanted to protect its wearer from magical damage. Her armour was made of steel, by the looks of it, and gleamed so brightly in the sunlight that the Master-Wizard was rather surprised that it hadn't managed to give away their position like a warning beacon yet, especially compared to the tarnished armour worn by the two Nords stood behind her, the female glancing around the wall to check for signs of necromancer activity.

The Bosmer introduced them: "I am Magician Thalfin," she said tersely, examining the Altmer before her for any sign that he might be of a lower rank than her and therefore at her command. "This is Evoker Iver," she gestured to the large Nord man behind her distainfully, and he nodded his head ever so slightly in recognition of her words. "And Journeyman Merete." The woman did not look around, continuing to scan the area with her eyes. She raised her left hand by a fraction of an inch as it lay across the whitewashed stones of the ruin to indicate that she had in fact heard.

Rush chuckled. "What do you know, Thalfin, you don't outrank me any more!" The scowl that these words brought to the Bosmer's face was almost too priceless for either of them to miss, and even Seanturco felt his lips curling upwards into a smirk. The two Nords apparently found this amusing too, since they both seemed to be suppressing a snigger. "This is Master-Wizard Seanturco," the Orc continued, though she was obviously out of practice in pronouncing the High Elf's name, since she said it in an odd way that caused the mer in question to scowl at her. "He's the one what was sent to find out about Caranya and Irlav Jarol and all that stuff. How well did Traven brief you?"

Thalfin's lips pursed tightly for a few seconds before she chose to speak again, her tone even more terse than before. "We are to secure a Colossal Soul Gem from the necromancer Falcar, who resides inside. We can't get inside the ruin because of an enchantment placed by the necromancers, so we shall have to wait for them to emerge for themselves." There was a war axe strapped across her back that Seanturco had failed to notice until this moment; unsurprisingly, it too was gleaming in the sunlight, despite seeming rather too large for a female Bosmer to wield. "From what I have seen, there are two viable positions for attack: one near the entrance to the ruin, and the other slightly further away. You-" She spoke specifically to Seanturco, so that there was no way that any suggestion could be made that she had been speaking with Rush instead. "- May place us in whichever position you see fit, as the necromancers will probably be expecting us to be in one location. Traven believes that you should be leading this attack..." At the last sentence she sounded as though she sincerely doubted that Traven's actions were at all wise, probably since she had expected to be leading this mission herself when she had been informed of her selection. "So delegate as you see fit."

The Altmer nodded, and then turned to Rush, something which caused the Bosmer to scowl even more deeply. "I have no ideas about the abilities of these battlemages. Besides, you have already proven that your combat skills are superior to mine..."

The Orc smirked, suppressing a chuckle. "Right then," she said, cracking her knuckles in readiness for the battle. "You keep your distance and cover us with magic. Don't use your sword unless they get up close." She then turned to the other three battlemages, surveying them quickly. "Merete, you were good with magic so you stay up back. Iver, your skills lay with a weapon, whatever you wanna say about that, so you get up close and personal with them necromancers and make 'em wish they'd stuck to stayin' in the University. Thalfin..." A grin crossed her lips at the thought of ordering the Bosmer as to where to go. Thalfin had outranked her until her recent promotion, and Rush felt the need to rub this fact in for added effect. "Everybody knows you ain't quite as good with magic as you try to make out, but your bloody deadly with your axe, so you oughta move in up front and slice 'em up like the twats that they are... And I'll join yer. I want nothin' more than ta run ol' Falcar through. He and I have got some unfinished business."

Seanturco frowned at her words, though he didn't allow the emotion to show, following the Nord woman named Merete to the location that Thalfin had pointed out. He had to wonder exactly what it was that Rush considered unfinished enough to want to end, since it was he that Falcar had attempted to drown, not her. What struck him most, in fact, was that he knew so very little about what she had done before he had met her. She could be a cold blooded assassin, for all he knew, but the more he thought on it, his best and only friend was also an assassin. What difference should it make?

From his position, hidden by a whitewashed wall, the only thing he could see was the back of Merete's head as she crouched low enough to peer around the stonework at the entrance to the ruin. Satisfied that nothing was happening, she stood, her knees cracking loudly as she did so, and paced a couple of steps back and forth. She was shorter than he was, but not excessively so, and her skin was deathly pale, as was the case with all Nords; she was bulkier than he was, unsurprisingly considering both of their racial heritages, and she wore a short iron mace on her belt that gleamed as though it was rarely used, unlike her armour which seemed to be rusting in patches through either excessive use or poor maintainence.

"You should calm down, you know," the High Elf said to her in a low voice. Inside he was feeling just as nervous, but he had learned to stop showing emotions like that when he had been forced to hide his vampirism from society. "It really shouldn't be too different to whatever you learnt in training..."

The Nord glared at him for a moment before returning to the wall and glancing over at the entrance once more. "It's not training anymore," she replied tersely, her tone definitive. "There are lives at stake. Calming down will not help my alertness in any way."

"And being worked up with not help your accuracy." Rush must have been rubbing off on him; that, or the Hero of Kvatch had instead... "We have _our_ men out there, and you need full focus in order to protect them. An inch off could make the difference between killing a necromancer and killing a battlemage. We must be prepared to kill..." He shocked even himself by how nonchalently he managed to say this now, but after all he had been through it was hardly surprising. "The necromancers will not expect anything less."

Merete stared at him for a few seconds before opening her mouth as if to speak. Her words were cut short though, as the sound of metal passing through flesh reached their ears. The Nord immediately looked back over the wall, her fingers flexing as she prepared to tap into her magicka supply. Seanturco attempted to follow her lead, glancing over the other side of the wall with some considerable distance between himself and whatever was going on.

Necromancers seemed to be falling swiftly at the feet of the three battlemages, red blood staining their weapons as they drove them back down for killing strikes. Iver's war-axe moved with more ferocity than the one wielded by the considerably smaller Thalfin, but the accuracy was lost, and several of his opponents required finishing off with an extra blow that wasted time. Thalfin's weapon did not have force behind it, that much was evident; being a female Bosmer she lacked the muscular capacity. However every time her weapon met flesh it snuffed out a life, whether it severed a major blood vessel or whether it smashed ribs through the heart. It was extremely obvious why she was the highest ranking of these three battlemages, to say the least.

Rush's claymore slashed through the air so quickly that it almost became impossible to see, the enchantment taking almost as many lives as the blade itself. It moved this way and a necromancer's throat was cleaved open, it danced that was and a mess of internal organs spewed from another's stomach, it was thrust forwards and went _through_ the nearest necromancer, catching the next with an extremely surprised expression.

Seanturco and Merete searched for openings to cast spells at the enemy, but often the gaps were gone as soon as they were opened. Once the Nord managed to fell a rogue necromancer near the edge of the gaggle with a queer concoction of green fire unlike anything the Altmer had seen before, but he himself seemed unable to cause any damage.

Through the crowds of necromancers, on the steps of Silorn, he saw a familiar face in a black robe with a glowing red skull emblazened upon it. It was a man that for a long time Seanturco had been secretly harbouring a terrible desire to repay from his actions, but had never had the chance. He probably wouldn't now either, since Rush had spotted the mer too, and had thrown the dying Imperial from her claymore with disdain before blasting the remainder out of her way using magic in order to run at the man in the necromancer's robe.

Shock spread across the face of the ex-leader of the Cheydinhal guildhall as an Orc splattered with blood that was clearly not her own tore towards him like a woman gone mad. The Master-Wizard could only imagine the swear words that must have been running through his mind, since over the deafening sounds of dying men and mer it would have been impossible to hear.

With Rush gone, it was obvious that the necromancers who had been attacking her breathed a momentary sigh of relief. She had probably been the most formidable of the three visible enemies they faced now, since she possessed both strength _and_ accuracy, unlike her counterparts. A split second later and one or two of them appeared to have had the same idea to raise the corpses of their fallen comrades to use as meat shields against whatever came next. Seanturco heard Merete swear loudly in crisp Cyrodilic before she hopped over the wall she had been hiding behind and drew her mace, charging into the fray haphazardly. She would almost certainly die running in this way, and the distraction lastest long enough that the Altmer completely lost sight of the goings-on between Rush and Falcar so that next time he glanced at the entrance the pair has completely vanished, presumably inside.

Iver looked as if he was being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of necromancers that still seemed to be pouring from the ruin's mouth. How had Falcar amassed so many followers so quickly? There were at least five-score of them now, wielding their pathetic daggers and casting their ridiculous spells. They went down easily, granted, because of their stupidity and lack of training, but the numbers of them made it difficult to deal with every one before they dealt some kind of damage. Seanturco threw lightning through the nearest necromancer who looked as if they were about to attempt to drive their iron dagger through Iver's steel plate, and the dying Redguard managed to grasp the arm of a nearby Bosmeri man, sending the shock through him too and felling both of them.

It was a good distraction, in practice, because it gave the Nord time to fell at least three of the enemies around him, but it alerted them to the attention of a fifth attacker, and several of them backed off from the two Nords and the Bosmer who were proving to be extremely formidable opponents - Seanturco could now see what Traven had meant when he had claimed that they had been chosen for their 'superior skills' - to go in search of the other who was hiding at the back and was probably not quite so skilled with whatever weapon he might wield, if any.

The Altmer staggered backwards, cursing in his native tongue which he so very rarely used these days. His fingers found purchase on the sword that Rush had given him, and told him the fundaments of using but actually never trained him with, and he drew it awkwardly, felling one necromancer with a fireball while yet more seemed to be abandoning the battlemages in search of an opponent who was slightly less likely to kill them. He swore again to see that, while a lot had backed off, there were not enough who had left them in order for them to think about helping him instead. There were roughly eight running towards him now, and he felt wholely stuck from behind this wall, meaning that they could come at him from whichever side they saw fit, or both.

The blade in his hand felt alien, and almost a dead weight as he fumbled to find a suitable grip. Rush had told him several things that had escaped him before now, such as where was best to hold the sword in order that the edge would meet the enemy instead of the flat which would cause bruising but no real damage. His brain ran over his other memories, such as watching people fight, like Rush and Turner. Turner fumbled with his blade somewhat, but he'd never seemed to be too severely injured that it couldn't have been healed. That Argonian had faced up against a hive of vampires for gods' sake! This was only a few necromancers... They were only as living as he was, and they would only go down as easily as he could... Wait, that meant that-

His thoughts were cut off as a necromancer leapt over the wall at one end, only to fall fairly quickly as magicka tore through his body, throwing him several feet through the air to land in a crumpled, smoldering heap. Seanturco summoned a dremora without a second though, assuming that it could give him a little bit of an edge, if not prevent his premature death. There was a fine line between being undead and being dead, a line that he had no desire to cross as yet. Besides, he could only dread what the necromancers would do to his corpse if he did fall.

The dremora tackled the necromancers who were flooding over the far end of the wall, lulling the Master-Wizard into a false sense of security until one rounded the wall rather closer to him than he would have liked, a second following soon afterwards. At this range magicka was pointless, and they could have seen it coming in time to dodge as well as that necromancer he had attempted to dual in Fort Teleman had done. Against two he didn't see his chances as particularly high, especially since they seemed far stronger than he was, one being a Nord and the other an Imperial.

He didn't allow the pair to make the first move, slashing at the Nord who was the closest of the two. He missed by about six inches, his weapon meeting nothing but air and very nearly causing him to topple over. The necromancers grinned to each other at the prospect of their opponent being simply _that_ unskilled with his blade and drew their own weapons with arrogance, the Imperial holding a shortsword made of steel while the Nord held a short iron mace. Inwardly Seanturco cursed his blatant misfortune, while outwardly he allowed nothing to show, just in case they decided to use his apprehension to their advantage.

The Imperial attacked first, and his blow was blocked by an Altmer who's arm was very nearly jarred by the impact and who took a step backwards to absorb a little bit of a shock that accompanied it. Seanturco's mind raced to think of some kind of spell that he could cast that would allow him to rid himself of this pair without giving them a chance to dodge. The enchantment on his sword would be of some use if he ever actually managed to land a blow, which for now looked highly unlikely.

The Nord swung next, and the Master-Wizard found himself considering how lucky he was that they had yet to choose to attack him at the same time, however unlucky he considered himself right now. He ducked under the mace by a fraction of an inch, slicing upwards with his own sword to catch the necromancer on the thigh with the flat of it. Even Turner had proven a little more accomplished with a blade than he appeared to be fareing right now, which was definitely saying something about his skills, or lack of. The small nick that the blade made in his thigh was strangely damaging though, as the sword itself appeared to suck the life from the man until he staggered away, weakened drastically as he gasped for breath. His companion glanced over at the tiny wound and rolled his eyes at the overreaction, diving forwards with blade outstretched to be met again with the wave of inexperience that radiated from the mage.

Suddenly green fire engulfed the Nord as he reeled in pain, causing him to collapse a second later, his corpse apparently burnt but untouched. It was a custom spell, and one that Seanturco had seen only recently... _Merete_. At least they knew what was going on. Or maybe they hadn't seen the Imperial, and maybe he was going to die here anyway.

He blocked another blow, this time only barely, and it left a long scratch along his forearm that would be fairly simple to heal, if he survived that long. He attacked back, taking the Imperial by suprise as he swung his blade left instead of right as he had done up until this moment, meaning that the man had scarcely enough time to stop the sword burying itself into his ribcage. The High Elf grabbed ahold of the man's right shoulder and let magicka flow into his body, incapacitating him with a Paralysis spell so that he slumped to the ground until he was run through by a mildly ticked off mer.

Healing the cut to his arm with only a few Ayleid words, Seanturco rounded the wall to see that most of the rest of the fighting was over as the battlemages stalked over the corpses of the necromancers, running through any that did not appear to be as dead as they would like. The dremora that he had summoned what seemed like a lifetime ago disappeared back to his home plains of Oblivion without a second bidding, leaving a pile of corpses in his wake.

"Are you alright, magister?" Iver grunted. His voice was curiously low and had an odd growl to it which made it sound as if he didn't originate from either Skyrim or Cyrodiil, perhaps somewhere like Solstheim.

Seanturco nodded, though in truth he felt slightly shaken. "Do you know what happened to Rush?"

"She followed that bastard Falcar inside," Merete explained, flinging lightning through the corpse of one barely alive necromancer with considerably more force than was absolutely necessary. "Haven't seen her since."

Of course, he should have known that Falcar would have retreated to the only place that he would have felt safe: his own lair. The Master-Wizard wasn't at all worried about Rush. She knew her own abilities far better than anything else, and she would never have run into single combat unless she knew she had a high chance of coming out victorious. "Are you all alright?" he asked, glancing suspciously at Thalfin, who looked as if she wanted to say something and yet remained stubbornly silent.

"Nothing that won't heal," replied the male Nord, moving to reveal what looked like a deep gash to his left side where a necromancer's dagger had obviously found some purchase in the small gap between the plates of his steel armour. The simple clothing that he wore beneath his armour was already soaked through with red blood, and the liquid was beginning to run down his greaves since it had nowhere else to go. "I've been working on my Restoration. I'll heal this up when we're sure the threat's gone."

Seanturco noticed that Merete shot him a slightly worried glance as he spoke. There was a good chance that the two were related, given that they were both Nords, but he wasn't about to jump to such feeble conclusions. That would imply that he was related to Falcar, or to High Chancellor Ocato, or Mankar Camoran, just by being the same race, something with made him cringe at the thought. "You should really heal up in this lag," he said, a serious tone in his voice. "If more come out of there now then we'll need you on fighting form no matter what."

Thalfin interrupted with a sudden outburst: "Is there really any reason for us to wait for Magician gra-Yazgash?" Her tone was terse and her voice unwavering. "Falcar is a superior mage, and surrounded by his followers. There is no way that a single battlemage could fight her way through and survive."

"How long exactly has it been since you last spoke with Rush?" There was amusement in his blue eyes as he spoke, even though his voice was completely serious in every way. "She is more than capable of fighting her way through there and making it out unscathed. She already took on Master-Wizard Caranya, and her followers, as well as an army of necromancers and daedra over the corpse of Irlav Jarol. She did all that alone, she can do this now."

The Bosmer fumed at his words and looked as if she was almost prepared to pull punches over this matter. Seanturco could only hope that the two Nords would not actually allow that to happen, since he was the most senior in rank of all of them. "How do you know that she does not have some ulterior motive?" Thalfin spat, her fingers tightening around the haft of the war axe in her hands as she drove it viciously through the skull of one of the nearest corpses. "How do you know she does not wish to _join_ Mannimarco. She only claimed to have _unfinished business_ with Falcar. She didn't stop to explain what that _unfinished business_ was!"

"Magician Thalfin, for your information, I have complete trust in Magician gra-Yazgash, _far_ more so than I do of _you_," Seanturco spat violently in reply. He'd surprised even himself by how harshly his words had come out, but there was no sense in taking them back now. "You would do well to remember that it is I who am supposed to be leading this ambush, not you."

"Great amount of leading you did back there! Hiding at the back! What sort of leader can claim to have led their army from the back?"

"This is not an army," he replied tersely, striding towards the entrance to Silorn to see if he could detect any movement from within. The door was still sealed from the inside, apparently, which meant that Rush had most likely slipped through it when Falcar had fled the battle. Behind his back he could hear Thalfin cursing vehemently as Merete and Iver attempted to calm her. She was good at what she did, but she would never make higher ranks with that temper.

The High Elf drew the now bloodstained sword from its scabbard and examined it closely. He couldn't remember having replaced it into its casing, but apparently he had done, so perhaps in the heat of the moment he had merely done so on instinct rather than anything else. Instincts were good; instincts would keep him alive. He attempted to recall the words that Rush had taught him to nullify the enchantment on the weapon so that he could wipe the blood from it, but his attempts turned out fruitless, leading him to resolve to ask her as soon as she re-emerged from the ruin.

Glancing over at the three battlemages, Seanturco couldn't help but smirk when the Bosmer literally threw her battle axe some distance in a fit of anger after yelling some obscenity for the world to hear. Hopefully there weren't any more necromancers around, because they could quite easily take advantage of this lack of professionalism displayed on Thalfin's part. Merete and Iver appeared to have given up even trying to calm her, and now just seemed to be letting this outburst run its course naturally.

"That Falcar's a tricky bastard." A voice behind him very nearly made him jump out of his skin as he came within mere millimetres of slicing his hand open with an enchanted blade that he most definitely wouldn't have survived an assault by.

"How in Talos' name did you get out of there without-?" he didn't form the sentence properly as he tried to regain his composure, sheathing the blade to make sure that he didn't actually cut his hand open this time. To his annoyance, the Orc before him was grinning at his antics.

"Them necromancers are pretty smart. They looked their door and silenced it too, so they could take out any attacks by the Guild without bein' heard," Rush attempted to explain, folding her arms across her blood-splattered breatplate.

"Did you get the Gem?"

She produced a black stone from a pocket that Seanturco hadn't even been able to see, probably somewhere enchanted so that she could keep things she didn't want seen entirely hidden. "Falcar weren't gonna give it up, that's for sure. Just kept on runnin' and runnin' 'til there were nowhere else for him to run, and then tried to attack me of all things! Failed, o' course. Pretty stupid of him, if you ask me..." The battlemage trailed off, peering past the Master-Wizard at her comrades behind him. "Say, what's gotten into ol' Thalfin? I ain't seen her this pissed off since..." A noticeable grin spread across her Orcish features. "You trampled on her overblown sense of authority, didn't you?"

The Altmer attempted to maintain composure for a moment before dissolving into a fit of laughter. "You could say that!" he choked out as he paused for breath. "She was all like: 'How do we know she's not a necromancer?', and then I said to her: 'But I'm in charge here', and then she was like 'Oh, you're leading this army from the back!', and I just said 'This isn't an army' and walked off. By the Nine, you should have seen her face!" He honestly had no idea why he was finding this so amusing, or why he had completely lost all his dignity in a matter of seconds. In a few hours time he would look back on this moment with intense embarrassment, of that he was sure.

Rush merely chuckled. "Good on ya. Thalfin's usually pretty good at not gettin' ticked off with people, and you've sent her into a right royal tizzy."

Seanturco choked again, breathing heavily as he finally managed to calm himself down. "We should go back to the University now, right?" His words were more laboured than usual, but on reflection he hadn't laughed quite that much for very many years, and it wasn't even that funny.

"Of course, I wouldn't go takin' Thalfin back towards civilization when she's all worked up like that," the Orc replied. "She might go hack up Raminus Polus for kicks or summat." She smirked at the thought. "It ain't as if we can't just leave 'em here and let 'em make their own way back though. Least that way Thalfin can get her authority back or whatever."

"That," the Master-Wizard said slowly. He'd just about recovered now and his breathing rates were returning to normal. "Sounds like a good plan. I can't help the feeling that we might not be allowed to stay in the University too long though. Apparently this Gem is essential to protecting against Mannimarco's power. Is it filled?" Rush shook her head, wiping at the blood on her cuirass with a sleeve that didn't so much get it off as spread it around. "Then I have no idea just who's soul Traven is intending upon filling it with... Time will tell, I suppose."

* * *

_Author Note: So, this chapter took an absolute age, but that's only because I disappeared off to Iceland part way through writing it, and because it's longer than all the other chapters so far by a clear 2000 words._

_The first section was originally the second section, until I realised that it was backwards in time from the second section and swapped them over to maintain chronology. I don't personally like the first section, and it took me several days to actually make it seem vaguely readable. The second section was alright though, so I'm not too displeased with this chapter as a whole. Yes, the Battle of Bruma is quite soon. I look forward to writing it almost as much as I dread writing it. That is not where the story ends though, and there are two VERY important chapters between here and the Battle of Bruma. You might have noticed a convergence in the ending of questlines; that's your clue._

_OK, last chapter received eight reviews, but I know for a fact that other authors on here are getting twelve (or possibly more. It was twelve last I checked) per chapter. Eight is not shabby. It's anything but. I'm not complaining... Not much, anyway. Thus, the next chapter might well be severely delayed in being posted as I force myself to wait. I wouldn't even mind that much, if I didn't have reliable reviewers who have disappeared, and if I didn't have like 35 people reading this, 25 story alerts, and if I wasn't STILL getting eight reviews. Thusly therefore verily ergo, I shall, for the second time, go on strike. I have better things to do with my life than write this. I have exams coming up, possibly the most important exams of my life, and I choose to write this for you guys out there. It's only your massive support that has caused it to get this far, and I thank those eight of you who reviewed from the very depths of my heart, and I apologise for the strike, because it's not your fault in any way. Even sentence long reviews mean a lot to me, and every review is replied to, no matter what. Please stop me dissolving into a pessimistic downward spiral_

_~ARTY~_


	41. A Kiss Before Dying

_**Quote: Poets don't draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently - Jean Cocteau (French author and filmmaker)**_

* * *

_Chapter 41_

It was refreshing to be somewhere that didn't have an extreme weather pattern for a change. After spending a week in Kvatch, Turner had grown accustomed to the low cloud cover almost all of the time, and the irregular spatterings of rain that lasted anything from minutes to days... Things would get better, after a time, for the weather in Kvatch, but for now it was stuck on random until it managed to sort itself out. It was not everyday an Oblivion gate wiped out a city and half its residents, after all. The weather in Bruma had been suitably awkward as well; cold because of its location in the mountains and snowing sporadically. Idari had been fine with the cold, wearing that black robe of hers which had developed an ominous tear and noticeable bloodstain since he had last seen it, though he didn't have the audacity to ask her, but the Argonian himself had been less than happy with the weather, being cold-blooded by his very nature.

Cheydinhal however, was nice and temperate in climate. The Oblivion gate that had opened up there and been closed such a vast length of time ago had barely altered any of the weather patterns of the area. It was a small gate, the first step in a vast plan, and so barely anchored to Nirn that it was closed haphazardly by two Dunmer, an Argonian and an Imperial, claiming the lives of several others along the way.

For Turner, Cheydinhal could have been a pleasant place to settle down and live, but now it simply held too many powerful memories of home and family and death and pain. He would never look at it the same way again.

The conversation on the long ride between Bruma and Cheydinhal had been all but non-existant, though Idari had kept Shadowmere riding at a pace that Snowdrop could match, albeit if the poor animal began to tire out after the first couple of hours. Turner desperately wanted to say something to her, to thank her for her concern over his safety, or to explain that he had meant well in Kvatch and that he hadn't anticipated her reacting quite so strongly to what she had seen... But today she seemed formidable, and while she might not kill him she would think nothing of injuring him and then healing him again if the mood took her. He kept his mouth shut as a result.

Without warning, and seemingly acting to her own agenda more than whomever else's she was planning on following today, she reined Shadowmere in and dropped to the floor, an apparent sign for him to do the same. When he did so she drew her silver shortsword, holding it aloft so that it glinted in the sunlight.

"If I am forced to train you, we may as well start here," she explained in a low voice that could easily have terrified somebody who didn't know her quite as well as he did. Her eyes were fixed on the blade and the way the light danced along it, a strange smile on her lips despite everything else.

"I thought you had a contract..."

The Dunmer chuckled, her wrist rotating slightly so that the sword moved through the air swiftly. "Then whoever I am destined to kill may have the luxury of a few extra minutes of life." The nonchalence in her voice was unmistakeable and, if the Argonian had to admit it, rather terrifying, especially if he were to be on the receiving end of one of her blows with that sword...

"I'd rather not be cut to ribbons, thank you," he replied tersely, taking a single step away from her and bumping into the black horse behind him. "Why should you care about whether or not I'm trained anyway? It's not as if my survival guarantees anything for Tamriel! It's not as if my fate is in any way important! I'm just a beggar, however much you train me!"

"And if you believe that, then that's all you'll ever be," Idari grinned, the blade streaking in a broad arc around her wrist to create a silver circle to eyes that were not sensitive enough to keep up. "I won't cut you to ribbons." That statement was definitely anything but a promise, yet somehow it sounded as though she were - at least in part - offering to stake her word on this fact. That meant it was definitely true. "And if I do then I have the ability to heal you... And I have the control to make sure that, if I do injure you, it won't be permanent."

Turner considered this for a moment before a heavy sigh was torn from his lips. He knew she was right, after all, and he was backed up against his own horse so that he had nowhere else to go. With a shrug he drew the daedric sword from its rough scabbard, amazed by how long it had been since he had actually wielded the thing; it had been a week, give or take, but it felt like a lot longer, though being unconscious for five days had done little for his sense of time. It felt like an awkward weight in his slightly weary arm, but luckily the injuries had not been quite so debilitating as to remove any of the abilities that he had acquired before Miscarcand.

Idari smirked, her red eyes gleaming with an odd sense of something that looked almost like pride, though the Argonian could not tell why she would be proud of him when nothing had happened yet. She adopted a fighting stance, knees slightly bent with her shortsword held firmly in her right hand, her left free for magic or to take ahold of the katana on her back if necessary. Turner stepped away from the horse, slightly concerned that it would bolt from him if he didn't tie it to something; surely Shadowmere knew to stay put, but Snowdrop could hardly be considered in the same league as that demon. He forced the animal to the back of his mind, content that Idari could probably subdue her if she attempted to run anyway, and hefted the sword upwards until he was happy that he could actually swing the thing without flinging it half way across Cyrodiil - though even that wasn't a given.

She swung, gently enough to give him enough time to parry the blow with his own weapon, but with enough force to send a jolt down his arm when the blades met. How she could place it so well amazed Turner, to the extent that he was so lost in thought that he very nearly missed the following blow that came from the opposite side. It caught him on the forearm as he moved his own sword to block her, though not quite hard enough to do any damage besides bruise, failing to even break through the armour he wore.

In truth, he knew that any injuries he received were going to be his own fault, but that didn't really stop Turner from blaming Idari for the whole string of injuries that followed every time he failed to meet her blade mid-swing. She seemed to be enjoying this as well, and that only increased his frustration, leading him to be even more clumsy than usual.

Eventually she nodded. "Well... I've seen worse," she admitted, a grin plastered on her face that was visible even beneath the shadow cast by her hood. Placing her sword in its scabbard, she continued: "It'll be hard work to get you ready for Bruma -" Though Turner had to wonder why she was acting as though she cared. "-But I reckon we can manage it..." Now the odd sense of pride was in her voice as well, and she sounded almost... sisterly. It didn't seem possible for Idari Mortha to be kind to somebody, or to care about their welfare, but apparently she did. Turner couldn't figure out what made him different to anybody else. "Come along... The dead drop is in Nornal which, I gather, is an Ayleid ruin around here somewhere." She strode to Shadowmere, leaping onto the beast's back and urging him forwards.

The Argonian gave up with a sigh, sheathing his daedric blade and spinning around to find his horse only a few feet from were he had left her, chewing some grass as if nothing were amiss. If anything, he was slightly angry with Idari, even though he knew she meant well for what was probably the first and only time; he had spent a long time getting over his previous injuries, only for her to inflict more as if she didn't even give a damn.

"Better you get injured now than in battle," the Dunmer pointed out, alerting him to the fact that he was limping again. She was right - she usually was - but that didn't stop her from being utterly frustrating sometimes.

Turner pulled himself onto Snowdrop's back and the pair rode in silence in the direction that Idari claimed held the Ayleid ruin in question, though it was easily presumed that she was just allowing Shadowmere to find the way there himself, as he probably had more of an idea than either of them did.

As with most of the ruins that the Ayleids had built, Nornal was easy to spot when they drew close due to the way that the white stones gleamed in even dim sunlight between the trees that surrounded it. Both Idari and Turner dismounted when they saw it, though only one paused to tie their mount firmly to a tree to prevent her from running away, and they approached quietly.

This ruin was large and hidden among the trees in the hills overlooking Lake Poppad, the Niben only a kilometre or so to the west. Over the years, it had been relatively undisturbed by the people who used the area for whatever purposes they had, mostly due to its proximity to... nothing in particular. The Black Road lay to the south, leading to Leyawiin, and the Red Ring Road ran its course to the west, encircling the Imperial City. To Turner, the only thing he could remember it being anywhere near was Drakelowe, the home of the witch Melisande who had created the vampire cure for Idari's brother and for Seanturco; he had ridden past this ruin before, on his way to Skingrad with the cure, and on his way back to Drakelowe with ingredients, but he had never realised that one day he would return to it once more.

Idari had decapitated the wolf that was wandering around nearby before it had even noted their presence, and the Argonian found that the sight of blood didn't bother him quite as much as it once had, though he still wasn't keen to focus on it for any length of time.

"So where is this contract of yours?" he asked her, his voice low as a gust of wind made the bare trees groan loudly as if missing their leaves this harsh winter.

The Dark Elf smirked. "In a chest. Underwater," she stated, approaching the door of the ruin. "You can breathe underwater." A grin broke out on her face. "So your assistance in acquiring this one would be... useful."

"And if I say no?"

"Then next training session I might not be so nice." She delivered the threat nonchalently, though Turner was sure that she was being deadly serious about what she was prepared to do. She might not want to, but she could still kill him in a heartbeat and never look back.

He followed her to the entrance. This ruin had probably once been layed out in the same way as the others that were dotted around, a round building with thin walkways protruding from it, leading to small round towers with statues of Ayleid gods, much like Miscarcand, but time had not treated it kindly and it had been weathered away to leave only the entrance and a single tower some way off, a large statue adourning it that was now devoid of details.

Mere words later and the pair were inside, walking down a spiralling staircase that was so broken in the middle that it had fallen away entirely to be replaced with rotting wooden boards by some unknown person who had probably long since died and that would fall apart were they to be looked at in the wrong way. Idari scaled the broken stairs easily, leaping across with grace as if they were hardly there at all, her balance appearing to maintain itself as her feet made contact with the section below. Turner looked at the gap before him analytically, calculating his chances of actually making it across without falling into an ominous looking black hole that the crumbling stone had disappeared into forever, never to be set eyes upon again. The thought almost gave him vertigo.

The Dark Elf sighed, tapping her foot on the floor before she spoke: "OK, pondscum... What you're going to do is walk forward," she instructed him, muttering a spell under her breath that engulfed him with wisps of magicka.

Terrified of falling, but more so of incurring her wrath, Turner took one hesitant step over the abyss, his foot meeting the air as though it were solid ground and surprisingly holding him upright. The look of shock on his face prompted Idari to explain: "Levitation. It's banned in Cyrodiil after the Levitation Act of 421, but it's not banned on Vvardenfell." She chuckled softly as he continued to walk with slightly subdued fear. "You'd be surprised how many people in Cyrodiil still practice Levitation, though they have to be careful who's watching... And remember that what goes up, must come down."

He was hovering now, a couple of feet above the set of stairs that the Dark Elf was standing on, attempting to figure out exactly _how_ to get down when she dispelled the magicka, causing him to fall. Awful as always, his balance did little to prevent him from tumbling the rest of the way down the stairs, but he found himself propped up by a wall of solid air, the glow of magic on the fingertips of an assassin the only clue as to what was going on. They descended the rest of the stairs quickly until the sounds of water filled their ears as it sloshed about of its own accord, disturbed only by the mudcrabs who had found there way in somehow and floating chunks of debris. The debris lasted slightly longer than the mudcrabs.

"Swimming in leather is not a very good plan," Turner pointed out, aware that his own armour was held together by little more than magicka. Nonetheless, his instincts were proving hard to control standing this close to the water; he hadn't swum in a long time, and it was something of a need for an Argonian such as him.

"Did you have a better one?"

Turner sighed heavily because, admittably, he didn't. He removed his weapons and began to wade into the cold pool, a strange feeling hitting him as his body took note of the water around it and yet his armour kept him completely dry. He had only done so once before, and it had been a foolish escapade after killing Valen Dreth, that detestable Dunmer in the Imperial Prison - his very second murder, though looking back the first had been little more than an unfortunate accident and hardly a murder at all. He had paid for it later - both the murder and the swimming in leathers - but neither seemed very important right now as he submerged himself fully in the freezing water, swimming swiftly to the first gate that his golden eyes found through the gloom.

He shouldn't have been surprised to find it locked, but he was oddly curious as to why a gate _underwater_ in an _abandoned_ Ayleid ruin was locked for. Who exactly were they expecting to break in?

The gills in the Argonian's neck made breathing underwater as simple as breathing on land, so he peered between the bars of the distinctly rusted gate until he saw a curious looking chest some way behind it. It would not have been unusual to find a chest in a ruin such as this one, were it not blissfully obvious to whoever paid attention that this chest had only been put there recently - the wood itself was completely undamaged and the metal lock was far from rusted. Turner would have sighed, but underwater even he would find that difficult.

He swam upwards until his head broke the surface, glad to find that the Ayleids had not been conscientious enough to build their gates so that they reached all the way to the ceiling, though even they, in their wisdom, could not have predicted that this ruin would one day end up flooded. The assassin frowned; even if he returned to Idari to report the situation with the gate, she would only give him a lockpick and send him back, and he would break that in a matter of seconds. So his only option really was to climb over the gate... in leather armour and covered in painful injuries. It was verging on cruelty, but it was necessary, and so he found himself hauling his body out of the water just to do something for a woman who could hardly care whether he lived or died.

Swinging a leg over the iron gate, the rest of his body followed rather more swiftly than he would have liked and he tumbled over it headfirst, plunging downwards rapidly in an action that would have driven the air from his lungs, if he couldn't breathe underwater naturally. It was times like these that he praised the Nine for making him an Argonian.

A second or so later Turner had his bearings back and he swam to the chest, picking it up easily before realising that he had to figure out some way to heave it back over the gate and all the way to where Idari was without a doubt growing bored while she waited. He made his way towards the gate, dragging the chest behind him - there was no doubt it would be heavy, but underwater it weighed very little and he could move it easily with just one hand.

From this side, it was fairly obvious that the gate was not as securely locked as it had appeared to be, and he forced it open in only three attempts, swimming on through awkwardly with the wooden chest trailing behind him.

Idari was exactly where he had predicted she would be, leaning languidly against the wall as she waited, though there was no doubt that she was fully alert to her surrounding, ready to kill anyone who tried to attack her at a moment's notice. Turner dragged the chest as far as he could, and then she manoeuvered it from the water using magic; a few choice words later and he heard the lock snap open, the box bearing its secrets to the world.

Inside sat a bag of coins that was obviously soaked through, and a piece of parchment that had had some enchantment placed upon it so that it repelled the water and remained dry. Apparently not interested in the money, the Dark Elf grabbed the contract and read it through twice before tucking it firmly into a pocket. She picked up the bag and threw it to Turner, who missed it quite spectacularly, though it luckily remained closed when it plopped loudly into the water so that the Argonian had to fish it back out again.

Idari smirked. "Come on then. Next target's in Bravil and I want to get there by nightfall." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder towards the door and started back up the stairs. She didn't seem too bothered about who she was sent to kill this time, mostly because she had convinced herself that she had already destroyed the Black Hand single-handedly. "You're going to help me with this one. It's an archer, and it's good for your training."

xxx

They should have been returning victors, but by the time the pair reached the Arcane University they felt anything but. It was drawing on for midday as they approached the Imperial City having spent a night in a crude camp to recover from the events at Silorn. They had vanquished a powerful enemy of the Mages Guild and yet... they felt as if they hadn't quite been finished with yet.

Rush led the way into the lobby of the Wizards Tower, the only sound either of them made coming from her boots as they struck the highly polished floor hard enough to do some damage, were it not protected by magic. For a short while, neither of them saw fit to move.

"Up you go," the Orc prompted, gesturing to the teleportation platform that was humming gently to itself as it always did. She reached into her pocket and drew out the Colossal Soul Gem, offering it to him as a further prompt to what he might be supposed to do.

Seanturco stared at her for a moment longer, his blue eyes fixed and hard. Finally he shook his head. "No," he replied, voice hoarse from disuse even though it had only been since yesterday. It _had_ been a fine victory, but overnight the gravity had dawned upon him as the novelty had worn off: this was not over yet. "No, you and I should be equals this time," he insisted. Rush raised an eyebrow as if she had not heard him correctly, so he proceeded to explain: "It was _you_ who obtained the gem, not I. Events draw to a close, I can tell..." And there was something in the way Traven had spoken last time that had alerted him to the fact that something was amiss

"And what's the worst that can happen talking to Traven?"

The Altmer had to admit that she had a point, but he was not prepared to be shaken on this one. He shook his head again, more firmly this time. "You found the gem, not me. They will want to know what transpired when you battled Falcar and I can only go on what you say."

Rush shrugged. "Fine," she replied, placing the gem back into the pocket before looking at the Master-Wizard expectantly. "You gonna lead the way then? Since I'm not actually allowed up there and all."

Seanturco reacted more slowly than usual, but eventually he managed to transport them both to the Wizard Council Chambers. They were as empty as they usually were, perhaps they even felt emptier today - the deaths of Caranya and Irlav Jarol had left deep voids in the running of the Arcance University and things had begun to slip as Raminus Polus and Hannibal Traven attempted in vain to run the place alone; Tar-Meena was not much help, as she was only in charge of the University Archives and held very little jurisdiction. Again Traven was alone, though what he was doing was an utter mystery to anyone but himself, a sealed note lay next to an inky quill to indicate that he had been writing something, and the haggard look on his face showed that whatever it was was of some extreme importance.

When he saw them he stood, more excitable than usual, and walked around the large circular table swiftly. "It is good to see you back," he said in a matter-of-fact manner, as if he was waiting for something to happen or simply in a blinding hurry. "I trust you managed to acquire the Black Soul Gem?"

Rush nodded, holding the prize out to the man who she had only seen on a handful of occasions. He snatched it up like a man possessed, a slight shake in his hands as he held it. Seanturco decided to press for information, though he suspected the worst; "What is the significance of this Gem?" he asked, desperate to find out what he needed to know before something bad happened, something he had subconsciously knew was coming but had failed to accept fully - until now.

"It was created with a specific purpose," Traven tried to explain, though his voice was quivering ever so slightly. His body language portrayed immense fear, but his eyes were the same as always - cool and calculating, prepared to do whatever it took. His eyes betrayed his true feelings. "To hold a powerful mortal soul." He paused as his gaze shifted to the pair in front of him, his voice growing less fearful with each syllable it formed. "It was created for me."

"Then we cannot let them win. Now that we have it our possession there is nothing that they can do," Rush interjected, aware that she was speaking out of term though apathetic to that fact. It seemed she was figuring out what Seanturco had known in the back of his mind for such a very long time and had been too afraid to admit.

"I'm afraid it is not that simple," the Breton continued, unphased by the interruption. "Every minute we have waited in the past, Mannimarco has grown stronger. Previous Arch-Mages have faced Mannimarco and fallen, even the great Galerion, and now he is more powerful than he has ever been before." Traven's voice was lower now, and his tone was more serious than its usual tone. "Retrieving this is a small victory, true, but it will not cripple the so-called King of Worms for long. However-" He raised the gem to eye level, gazing at it intently. "-This Gem may prove the key to putting an end to Mannimarco permanently, and without him the necromancer cult will fall apart; one must remove the head so that the body will die, so to speak."

"How in Oblivion will this Gem help us best Mannimarco?" the Orc asked, an edge of frustration taking her. "He is a powerful lich, and one _stone_ is not going to kill him!"

Traven sighed, and inwardly Seanturco sighed with him. They had both seen it coming to this, but only one had been strong enough to accept what had to be done. "Mannimarco's greatest weapon against us has been his ability to turn a mortal into a Worm Thrall with a mere thought. Aside from that, his powers are great, but manageable for a skilled mage. This _stone_, as you put it, will prevent his powers from turning you into an undead minion of his." Another sigh, but now all traces of fear that had been present before were gone. "It must be filled, of course. Filled with the soul of the man it was intended for."

The Altmer heard Rush gasp in shock. Surely she must have seen this? Surely it was obvious? Only self-sacrifice could lead to Mannimarco's death, and Traven was the man prepared to carry out this greatest of all acts of loyalty. To die for his cause.

It was a good way to go, sufficed to say. Better than to die an old man knowing that he could have done something, could have saved those lives, but did nothing. Better than to die a bitter young fool, even better than to die a hero's death. To die for one's cause was the ultimate in devotion, and the means to a necessary end. To die for peace, to die for the future. Traven was going to sacrifice his own life, they both saw that now and they both knew - _knew_ - that it was the only way.

"But who will carry the Gem to Echo Cave?" the Orc pressed, agitated. She had killed before, and seen deaths aplenty, but a suicide seemed... cowardly, and therefore unacceptable. Hannibal Traven did not answer with words, but the shift in his grey eyes from the Soul Gem to a certain ex-vampire was all the answer Rush needed. "Us?"

Seanturco shook his head, a pit in his stomach. "There is only one Colossal Soul Gem," he reminded her, speaking for the first time since they had arrived on this floor. "I'm afraid I shall have to face the King of Worms alone."

The battlemage opened her mouth to object, but Traven silenced her with a wave of his hand. "What the Master-Wizard says is true. Only one is destined to take on Mannimarco and walk away victorious."

"But who will head the Mages Guild when you're gone?" Rush continued to argue, obviously displeased with what the pair were saying. "Remove the head and the body will die, that's what you said."

"That applies only the necromancers, Magician." Traven's voice was softer now and he took to twisting a ring on the middle finger of his right hand to distract himself during this mindless conversation, only delaying the inevitable. "Mannimarco has ruled the necromancers for so many centuries that there is no other who could fill his place; in short, without him, they will fall. The Mages Guild is full of talented mages, none moreso than the next, and therefore the Guild will always recover when an Arch-Mage... goes. As for the next Arch-Mage..." The current one smiled, a valiant attempt considering the circumstances. "I can think of no-one better than the man who brought down the King of Worms himself."

Seanturco blinked in disbelief. It was quite evident that he had thought a lot of things through, but not this; he had not been expecting to be made the new Arch-Mage, not in a million years. "But surely Raminus Polus..."

A glint crossed the Breton's eyes. "Raminus Polus will understand my decision." He took one final look around before nodding. "It is time. When I am gone, take the Soul Gem to Echo Cave and destroy what so many before you couldn't. Everything here will be taken care of." The faint thrum of magicka filled the room as an old man placed a powerful Soul Trap spell on himself, smiling as he picked up the Colossal Soul Gem one last time. "It is an honour to do my part for the Mages Guild." Before a further word could be said on the subject, a flash of brilliant light filled the room, closely followed by a wave of searing heat that forced both mages to turn their heads away.

As it subsided, one thing was apparent: Arch-Mage Hannibal Traven was dead. He had ended his life with a flash of fire, simple but undeniably effective. Now Hannibal Traven would not be remembered for his failings in life, but for his gallant death and sacrifice for his guild.

Both of the witnesses had seen death before; it was beyond any shadow of a doubt: one was an ex-vampire who had killed to live and the other was a skilled battlemage who had seen more death than she cared to admit. But to witness a suicide... It _was_ a means to a necessary end; historians would look back in years to come and recall the great sacrifice of Arch-Mage Hannibal Traven with fond memories of how he had saved the guild from the evil necromancers and their wicked ways.

For now however, there was action.

Rush swooped down and plucked the now full Soul Gem from Traven's dead fingers. It hummed with magicka now, pulsed with the soul of a man who had given his own life to save so very many, who's body lay on the floor of the Wizard Council Chamber and yet looked... peaceful.

Though he had killed himself with fire, his corpse appeared surprisingly undamaged by any account. Small burns ran over his hands, though his robes were untouched by the flames, and his face was free of injury, his eyes closed as though he were merely sleeping. He must have worked on the spell that would kill him for quite some time in order to prevent his body burning to a crisp, and both Rush and Seanturco would have admired the ingenuity of it, were they not slightly in shock as to how quickly it was over.

The Orc nodded, returning to the teleportation pad with a look of grim determination set on his face. "Let's get goin'," she said surprisingly quietly.

"I have to do this alone..." Seanturco pointed out to her. The thought was enough to tie his stomach in tight knots and make him feeling like he needed to throw up violently. Nevertheless, he joined her on the platform, and a moment later they found themselves in the lobby again; it was still empty, peculiarly empty for the time of day, but neither of them was in any mood to question that fact at this precise moment.

Rush stared at him, her amber eyes moderately amused for some reason known only to her. "Traven only said you had to fight Mannimarco alone. He didn't say nothin' about me goin' with you to Echo Cave."

"It's dangerous..."

The battlemage chuckled. "And you think that Fort Ontus wasn't dangerous? Or Fort Teleman? Or Silorn? C'mon, you know as well as I do that fightin' necromancers ain't that dangerous. Besides... If you're to take on the King of Worms alone, you need all the help you can get."

xxx

Dusk crept over the horizon as the cesspool known as Bravil came into view. Idari had to wonder why she had bothered to save the city, with its drunken count and his skooma-addicted son, but there were other people in this town who frankly did not deserve to die and were only stuck there as victims of circumstance. For now, she would comfort herself that she had saved the city for a good reason.

This contract intrigued her. It was for a Bosmer who visited the statue of the Lucky Old Lady every night to pray for the heart of a married maiden... She couldn't help thinking back to when she had been killing the Draconis family and the short stop she had made in Bravil on her way to the Imperial City to end the life of one Matthias Draconis. She had met a Bosmer then, who had hung about the statue of the Lucky Old Lady and who had carried a quiver of arrows; was he her target? She really had no way to find out, except that this _Ungolim_ was likely to attack her first, and had bribed the guards not to interfere.

Turner rode beside her, oddly focused on a task that she had failed to inform him of the details of. She had filled him in a bit, but that was mostly vague details about where she was going and what she knew - which wasn't much - from the contract itself. It struck her that the last time they had completed one of her contracts together had been... when they'd killed Sybilla Draconis - or, at least, Idari had done the killed and Turner had stood in the doorway cringing at the sight and the smell of the blood. So many things had changed since then, from vampire cures to killing the Black Hand to battling powerful liches. And somewhere along the line she was going to have to tell Turner exactly what she had done.

"Have you been to Bravil before?" Idari asked him suddenly. She had no idea why she was asking such a random question, but for some reason she was in the mood for making some kind of conversation before they completed the assassination and left. He obviously wasn't too happy about coming on her contract either; she suspected he still hadn't killed out of anything other than necessity yet.

He considered this. "I've been to all the cities in Cyrodiil once now. I was moving around, trying to find a city to settle down in, when I got mugged in Bruma. Bravil I left hastily and haven't looked back since." They dismounted as they reached the stables, leaving their horses with an ostler who eyed them suspiciously but kept his mouth shut, and crossed a rickety rope bridge to the city.

Darkness drew close as they approached the statue of the Lucky Old Lady. It was a crude depiction of the Night Mother and her children, of course, but to the untrained eye it was little more than a statue of a woman with children at her feet. It had stood since the first era in the shadow of a chapel that had been built many centuries later, and the stories of its origins had been perplexing historians for years, though there was said to be a story put to it of the daughter of a prostitute who unknowingly served a prince in a bar, only to be showered with gifts some time later. _A 'lucky' lady_, said the people of Bravil. _The Night Mother_, said the Dark Brotherhood.

"He's an archer, so the best way to kill him will be to get in close," Idari stated in a low voice after she had waved him away from the statue to explain whatever plan she had forming in her head. "You are better with a ranged weapon, so I suggest you climb up high and try to snipe him from there. Be careful though, it's harder to aim when you're being shot at." Turner had to wonder how she knew that; he had never seen her touched a bow in all the time he'd known her, though perhaps it went the same way with magicka... he couldn't tell, all of his spells were cast accidentally or Invisibility spells. He wasn't sure why he could cast Invisibility and yet nothing else either.

"So I'm a distraction for him?"

"No." A deadly smirk crossed her lips for a split second. "I am the distraction. Make sure you hit him rather than me."

Turner's eyes widened. Was she... trusting him? With her life? It didn't feel natural at all, and probably didn't for her either, despite her smirk. Nonetheless he nodded and began looking about for a vantage point that wouldn't cause him to break his neck trying to reach; Idari might know Levitation and might have good balance, but he most certainly did not - climbing was not one of his options right now.

He tracked around the back of the building that she had pulled him aside to and climbed up the rickety wooden stairs that looked like enough of a death trap to make him fear for his life as he took those first cautious steps. They held though, and the floor above seemed sufficiently high up for him to get a decent vantage point from, though it didn't seem very safe at all. He could see the Dunmer clearly as she looked for a suitable spot to hide, walking about between the houses until she found what looked like a safe place where she crouched and all but disappeared from view. Turner had to admit that she was difficult to see; he knew where she was, and he was still having troubles making out her exact location.

From that moment a waiting game was played. Seconds felt like minutes and minutes felt like hours. The Argonian pulled his bow from his shoulder, holding it in his hand without an arrow nocked, but ready to fire one off at short notice. He was vulnerable where he stood, to the arrows of a talented archer such as the man they sought to kill now, and did he trust himself to get out of the way in time to stop being shot? He had survived inevitable death twice now. Twice was most definitely tempting fate. Third time lucky? Or unlucky, in Turner's case.

The Argonian was most definitely prepared to give up waiting and approach Idari again, who would have scolded him for blowing her cover, when a light came into view on the opposite side of the plaza, illuminating the wooden shacks in all their glorious awfulness. The man wielding the torch was a Bosmer garbed in green and otherwise unextraordinary save the bow slung over his shoulder joined by a quiver full of expensive looking silver arrows fletched with black feathers that looked... distinctly ominous. He looked serious and alert, and admittably he looked far too well-dressed to be a citizen of such a dive of a city. Turner assumed that this had to be their target, though he planned fully upon waiting for confirmation before he shot an innocent man down.

The Wood Elf approached the statue of the Lucky Old Lady, allegedly focused totally on the effigy before him. Suddenly, without prior warning the light he was holding extinguished, and Turner found himself jumping to the floor, acting exclusively on instinct - it was a good thing he did too, because a few seconds later he heard the unmistakeable sound of an arrow imbedding itself in the wall he had been standing in front of a moment before. Whoever lived inside that house was probably terrified out of their wits right now, seeing a barbed silver arrow appear in their living space abruptly. Turner however was more focused on staying alive than worrying about the owners of the building he was currently using as a vantage point, and he choked out his invisibility spell before he pulled together the courage to look over the edge.

Idari had emerged now, but the hail of arrows meant she was having trouble gaining any ground on the Bosmer, who didn't appear to be running out of ammunition any time soon. It was only her agility that prevented her from closely resembling a pin cushion at this precise moment in time. Without thinking, Turner jumped to his feet and fired an arrow back at the archer, dispelling his invisibility in the process as the man dodged it with shocking ease and sent one back instantaneously. The hapless Argonian managed to sidestep the projectile, only to lose his footing on the edge of the wooden board he was stood upon and topple himself over the edge.

The distraction lasted just long enough for the Dunmer to hit her mark with a spell that caused him to fly through the air backwards, crashing into the building behind as she managed to catch Turner with a slowfall enchantment before she smashed into the fence below. A second later a burning pain erupted from her right shoulder as a barbed silver arrow embedded itself in her flesh, staggering her backwards with the force of it. Ungolim stood before her, bow raised, his expression set as hard as stone, portraying nothing.

Her red eyes stung with unwanted tears as she tried to maintain her focus, swapping her weapon to her left hand so that she would have a better chance of being able to swing it. The Bosmer had another arrow nocked and his aim levelled at her chest; there was no doubt that a shot that precise would kill her, and there was no look of hesitation in his eyes - he had killed before, a fact that was so evident she had to wonder why she hadn't spotted it prior to an arrow striking her. She didn't fear dying, and her only regret was that she had never gone to find Reron of her own accord. But she wasn't ready yet.

Something was wrong though. An arrow that she recognised beyond a shadow of a doubt seemed to appear in Ungolim's wrist, the missile he had nocked snapping in half. It was a genius shot, there was no denying, and one that would likely never be repeated if it were attempted a million times.

The Wood Elf swore vehemently, though whether it was at the pain or at the fact that he had lost his kill shot was difficult to tell. In the interim, Idari cut off the majority of the shaft of the arrow protruding from her shoulder, leaving an inch or two so that it could be removed - though she had a feeling it had gone most of the way through and would be easier to dislodge from the other side, given that it was barbed.

Turner had a second shot lined up now that Ungolim was going to have some difficulty firing back at him, but the Bosmer did not seem willing to go down that easily and dodged the arrow as the Argonian let it fly. It was useless trying to shoot an expert marksman he decided quickly, and he drew the daedric sword after a moment's hesitation.

He jogged first towards Idari, who stood only two feet away from the Lucky Old Lady, a silver shortsword in her left hand and part of an arrow sticking from her shoulder, dark red blood trickling over her black armour. Ungolim had drawn a black dagger that looked as though it were made of ebony and was cutting through the shaft of the arrow in his left wrist without even so much as a pained wince.

The Dunmer ran forwards suddenly, attempting to tackle the Wood Elf with her shortsword. It wasn't that she was weaker on her left side - in fact, she was almost perfectly ambidextrous - but her mark had been expecting this move, and parried the blade with... his bow? The Argonian had to wonder what the bow was made of, since it didn't even so much as dent under the contact and appeared to be glowing a little, a sure sign of an enchantment, and a strong one by the looks of it. Without thinking Turner drew his bow again, the sword tucked safely in its makeshift scabbard as he lined up the riskiest shot of his life so far.

The pair stood roughly ten paces in from of him - far enough to get in a decent shot, at least - but Ungolim was shielded almost completely by Idari, who stood between them. She was roughly the same height as the man she battled, perhaps slightly shorter but not enough to help in any way as he struggled to hit the Bosmer without killing his Sister in the process. Besides, even if he lined up the shot perfectly, what was the say that one or other of them wouldn't move before it struck home? He didn't wish to be responsible for killing the Hero of Kvatch - Tamriel's only hope - after all, and how would be deal with Ungolim if she died? It was with these questions running around in his head that he found himself an opening that closed up again just nanoseconds later... If only he could get Idari to duck or something similar while he took out the accursed Wood Elf; but that involved shouting at her, and warning him too. It was a horrid predicament to find oneself in.

It was for the greater good that he loosed the arrow anyway.

He missed them both. In his plight to avoid hitting Idari he had aimed too high, and the other archer had seen the shot coming anyway and sidestepped it instinctively. Though this time something was different...

A gargling sound crept from Ungolim's lips, closely followed by blood that gushed from his mouth like water. Idari removed her shortsword from his stomach a second later.

"That's what you get for shooting me in the shoulder," she remarked snidely, a sneer on her lips. She had thrust her sword through his abdomen during the momentary distraction provided by the massively off-target arrow, its upwards angle meaning she had managed to nick most of his vital organs on the way up, leaving him with no real hope of survival, even if he could choke out a healing spell. There was no respite for him; Idari left him to drown in his own blood.

Suddenly a chill filled the air that quite clearly both of them felt, but only Idari had the means to reveal the cause of the fact. One dispel enchantment flung and Lucien Lachance stood before them, forboding in his black robes and carrying his silver shortsword, dark eyes portraying a cocktail of emotions from shock to anger and everything between. "I thought I could get here in time..." he growled, regret lacing his voice as he glanced at the fresh corpse behind them. "By Sithis, what have you done? Why have you betrayed the Brotherhood?"

Idari did a double take at his words, aware that his fingers were slowly closing around the hilt of his sword as if to finish a job. "What are you talking about? I followed your instructions to the letter!" she all but shouted in reply, her left hand diving into her pocket and pulling out the most recent dead drop that she had carried out, thrusting it into the Speaker's face angrily. She was fully aware that she couldn't fight Lachance with an arrow stuck in her shoulder, however skilled she might be compared to others, and Turner wasn't going to be any help at the moment either - he seemed torn between hiding and attempting to look confident and instead resolved to stand dumbstruck watching the scene unravel.

Lucien snatched the parchment roughly and read through it with little more than a sweeping glance, his expression growing grave. "What is this treachery?" he breathed, inspecting the document for any defining marks that would lead to its owner.

"Care to explain what I am supposed to have done?" The Dunmer was growing impatient suddenly, faster than usual due to the fact that she was being accused of a crime that, as yet, she had no idea about.

"Betrayal," Lachance snarled as though the word burnt him with a hot iron rod. "The Draconis family died as requested, one by one, but then betrayal. J'Ghasta, Speaker; Shaleez, Silencer; Alval Uvani, Speaker; Havilstein Hoar-Blood, Silencer; and now Ungolim, the Listener himself! You have been systematically killing members of the Black Hand, and the survivors are baying for _my_ blood, claiming that _I_ sent you; they proclaim your innocence, that you were just following orders..." His hand clenched into a fist around the contract, scrunching it into a tight ball. "But _this_ explains a lot. Your dead drops have been intercepted by the Traitor, I am certain of it."

Turner's heart sank. Everybody in the Cheydinhal sanctuary had been killed to root out the Traitor and now... Now it arose that they had died for nothing, and his home had been shattered for no reason. He could almost sense Idari's heart drop as she had the same thought - she claimed that it had had no effect on her, but her lie was as transparent as a pane of clear glass. She was merely putting on a brave face for Tamriel. He could still see them... Lying there, dead. Every single one of them, their eyes vacant, their blood spilt. He would never forget, and he would never rest easily because of it.

And that just made both Turner and Idari twice as determined to catch the person responsible.

The Imperial must have been the determined glint that crossed the faces of the two assassins before him, because he formed a plan quickly. "Travel to your next dead drop location, and attempt to apprehend whomever has been leaving these fake orders. When you have found evidence return to me... Fort Farragut is no longer safe, so I will travel to Applewatch, the home of the elderly Draconis woman; it will be empty now and is sufficiently far away to be exempted from suspicion. Go now, we must restore the powers of the Black Hand and end this madness by uncovering the Traitor." The man vanished before their eyes, likely disappearing in fear of his life, a strange concept for a man who was the subject of so many nightmares for so many people, a man who ended life with so little hassle. Now the Hunter had become the Hunted.

It was Turner who moved first after Lucien departed from them, edging away from the body of the dead Listener by just a couple of paces before he felt slightly more at ease. "So where are we headed then?" he asked her cautiously, aware that the Speaker had failed to return her last contract to her.

"Anvil." The only place in the world that could have caused the Argonian's heart to sink at the name of it.

"I'm afraid I can't go with you then..."

Idari span around, glaring at him with disturbing passion. "And I hope you have a good explanation as to why," she snapped, a snarl reaching her lips as she moved her right arm and sent a wave of pain through her shoulder. Who was she out to avenge, the Brothers and Sisters that she had killed, or her honour for having killed 'innocents'? Or perhaps she was trying to make it seem as though she was nobody's fool, and that she had killed the Black Hand of her own accord. It was hard to tell, but there was no mistaking that right now she was more than capable of killing anyone who stood in her way, left handed or not.

But Turner wasn't ready to tell her. Not now, not yet. "Anvil holds many memories for me... Memories I would rather not bring back up."

"Then you have no excuse," the Dunmer growled in reply, taking hold of his arm with her one good limb and leading him towards the city gates. "The best way to rid oneself of memories is to confront them head on." She was not taking 'no' for an answer this time... And he had saved her life. She would never forget that.

"Do you not want to remove that arrow from your shoulder?" the currently powerless ex-beggar attempted to point out to her, trying to get her to delay taking him back to the one city he had managed to avoid ever since he had left it over a year ago now. Would they remember him, the one-time ward of the author? He hoped they would not.

Idari though was not accepting a compromise. "Did you not hear what Lucien said? The _Black Hand_ are searching for him. They are unrelenting, and they will not sleep until he is found and brought to justice - Brotherhood Justice." That needed no reiteration. If the Black Hand would sanction killing an entire sanctuary in order to destroy a Traitor who was not there then they would think nothing of disposing of a single man who they thought was responsible for killing their own. After all, who knew the locations of the members of the Black Hand other than the Black Hand themselves?

xxx

A Breton man stood watching as the curious little Dunmer dragged the Argonian away, away in the wrong direction. They had not noticed the man as he had watched their exchange with Lucien Lachance, his life signal unnoticed by the Detect Life spell that he was sure the Speaker had thrown about before he allowed himself to be revealed - perhaps he had been mistaken for a passing guard, or for a citizen asleep in their home, he did not know.

His skin was pale, and drawn across his features tightly so that he closely resembled a living skeleton these days, and his blue eyes were sunken, filled with a mad glint that could terrify whoever noticed it. He was garbed simply in a long black robe and black hood that shrouded his face with eerie shadows that did little more than make him seem even more dead than before.

"Not long now, mother," he whispered to himself maniacally. Anybody who had been listening closely to him would have feared for the sanity that he had lost track of so very long ago. "Lachance will die, mother." He sounded more pleading this time, as if he almost doubted what he was saying to his 'mother'. "I will avenge you, mother." He ground his teeth together for a moment, staring at the corpse of Ungolim with morbid curiosity as he did so. He had to admit, he was impressed with their teamwork.

"The Black Hand will want to know about Applewatch, mother," the Breton man said. He would have sounded almost sane now, if he wasn't still whispering to a 'mother' who was not there. "And then we will take our revenge against Lucien Lachance." He began to laugh almost uncontrollably, doubling over at the waist as he shook at some imaginery joke. "And then the Night Mother. For why should they have their Mother when you were taken so cruelly from me?"

* * *

_Author Note: So, I apologise if anything sits weirdly with you about this story. Following the strike, during which time I rewrote chapter 3 - y'all can check that out if you really want to - I decided to write this chapter to a deadline. That deadline is today. In case you don't know the significance - 29/4/11 - Royal Wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton; and, more importantly, 17th birthday of one Arty Thrip :)_

_The last section is weird, but I couldn't resist adding it. The first section was written in a span over about three weeks. And the second and third section were written in eight days. This MIGHT lead you to figure out exactly why it sits weirdly, after all... And the next two chapters are important, very important. Just looking at this one makes it blaringly obvious._

_Oh, and one last thing: Little mention to **DualKatanas** who, in his awesomeness and due to stubborn competitiveness, managed to finally leave a review on every single chapter! Finally reviewing chapters 3, and 4. Random numbers I know, but it's accompanied with gratitude I cannot hope to convey :) Oh yeah, and Blood and Steel will overtake me on reviews this chapter! Wahey XD_


	42. Confront The King

_This 'un's fer __**ZWig**__, who, ironically, has the same birthday as me :) What were the chances of that, eh?_

_**10-5-11**__ Yes. It's official. Brothers in Arms FINALLY has ten thousand hits :)_

_The meaning of life, the universe, and everything is 42. So here you go, chapter 42_

_**Quotes: Could be messy. But change is never pretty - Wulf - TES3: Morrowind**_

_**You get a guy like Lynch with three things: Distraction, Diversion, and Division, and then you put him on show for the world to see - Templeton 'Faceman' Peck - The A-Team**_

* * *

_Chapter 42_

Echo Cave.

They had heard of it many weeks beforehand, from the lips of the sole survivor of the Bruma guildhall. They had researched it, found its location; they had read up on every document they could find on the King of Worms himself, about his role in the Warp in the West, and about his ascension to lichdom. They had trained on the way there. They had trained hard, and for many long hours before they slept in their makeshift camps on their way into the Jerall Mountains.

But Seanturco didn't feel prepared.

Not to battle Mannimarco.

No, _this_ battle was one he was unlikely to win, and he knew it. He could defeat vampirism, and he could beat necromancers in combat if he really put his mind to it... But a necromancer as powerful as Mannimarco? No, he didn't expect to win, and he barely even hoped to win; even Rush would have difficulty with this one, and she was not the one chosen to take to the stage right now.

They hadn't told anybody of Traven's fate, but news had reached them along the grapevine during their travels that his body had been found, that he had died honourably and died suddenly and unexpectedly. They suspected that it was Raminus Polus who would have had the misfortune to discover the body. Though, in fact, who else could it have been? Caranya and Irlav Jarol were dead, and Tar-Meena rarely visited the Council Chambers unless they were in session, and they were still searching for replacements for the fallen Master-Wizards to substitute into the Council. So Raminus was the only viable option.

It was obvious why the Bruma guildhall was the one that was singled out for destruction. In the foothills of the Jerall Mountains, Echo Cave was many miles from any significant town other than Bruma. Mannimarco had wished to strike fear into the hearts of the guild, and he had done so easily by destroying just one building and killing just a handful of people. He probably expected Traven to turn up at Echo Cave in full force - and he would be sorely disappointed.

As they passed Bruma, Seanturco couldn't prevent his eyes from turning to Cloud Ruler Temple longingly; for a moment he even considered running up there and asking for help, but they would be powerless against Mannimarco - they were soldiers, not mages, and they couldn't protect themselves from that sort of bombardment. He thought of the things he might miss if he ended up in Aetherius - he might miss his family, or his home, or he might miss his friends - but he had been dead once before, and yet he was still here on Nirn, about to take on the most powerful necromancer this world had ever produced. He didn't fear death one bit; better to die here for a cause that he truly cared about than to die of old age having done _nothing_ when he could have done something.

Considering she was effectively escorting him to his death, Rush seemed oddly calm as she corrected his fighting stance during training, or she showed him how to hold to blade so that it would actually cut rather than just leaving a violent purple bruise. Her demeanour disturbed him almost as much as the task ahead did.

On route to Echo Cave they passed a small isolated farmhouse somewhere to the west of Bruma; it looked fairly recently abandoned, perhaps due to the five obviously fresh graves that were lined up against the outer fence, or perhaps due to the fact that the plants in the small garden seemed mid-way between death and life, wilting away into the cold-hardened soil. The layers of frost that had formed around the house would have been undisturbed, save for a sole set of footprints leading to the door but not away. They didn't have time to stay, and besides, who knew what they might interrupt?

They had left their horses in the stables at Bruma; at least that way the animals would not be left to suffer should either of the pair fail to return from this otherwise suicidal mission.

As they drew closer, it became more obvious that several people had been passing along this path recently, both to the cave and back from the cave along a faintly trodden track with no real defining markers other than the footprints covering it. A string of expletives in Dunmeri alerted them to the fact that they were nearer to the entrance of the cave than they had realised.

The owner of the voice was a Dark Elf male with a deep green complexion who wore long black robes that brushed the floor as he walked and were adourned with the symbol of Mannimarco, a skull held up by two bony arms with wisps of magicka at their base. It seemed as though he were muttering some kind of spell in order to warm himself as he paced up and down to stop from freezing - unsurprising since he had obviously grown up in the warmer climes of Morrowind. The door behind him looked old, but equally sturdy, and was probably reinforced with magicka by the King of Worms himself. Skulls stuck on spikes stood out from the ground as a deterrent to whatever brave adventurer might decide to try their luck in this particular cave. The sight made Seanturco's heart sink even further about his chances of survival.

Right now he wanted nothing more than to sink to the floor with his head between his knees, rocking gently until it all went away. But he had to stay strong, to avenge Traven's death if nothing else.

Rush stepped out to confront the green-skinned mer, who stopped pacing to fix her with a glare for only a few brief moments, an ostensible look of utter perplexion spreading over his dark features as he attempted to figure out what he was to say, or to do.

"Stand aside," the Orc growled, her tone fearsome. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her sword and drew it smoothly in just one hand despite its obviously substantial weight.

A pair of red eyes narrowed at the command, though the silver dagger that appeared in his hand a moment later appeared remarkably inadequate to take on the cumbersome enchanted weapon. "You wish an audience with the King of Worms?" he sneered, showing no fear in the face of what was obviously his impending death. "If you do then you must open this door. I alone hold the key and I will-" His speech was cut off suddenly as the battlemage paralysed him with little more than a flick of her wrist, her blade travelling through his chest a few seconds later. The effects of the spell meant he could do nothing as blood gurgled from his open mouth and the gaping wound she had left in his torso. The key, crudely strung around his neck to prevent wandering fingers, was located and secured before she allowed his body to drop to the cold ground with a wet thud.

Seanturco, who had shown his face from the place he had been hiding only a few moments earlier, blinked rapidly at just how _quickly_ she had killed this man. It was necessary, of course, but it had all happened so _fast_.

"You don't have to face Mannimarco, you know." The Orc's voice splintered through his subconscious, making him realise that his mind had started rambling aimlessly in an attempt to calm him down.

His expression set hard. "I do," was all he said, and there was no trace of indecision despite his body language saying otherwise. He _knew_ this was his destiny, but that didn't stop him being scared. The weight of the Colossal Soul Gem in a pocket of his robes was enough to make him recall exactly what it had taken to get this far, and what more it would take if he were stand any hope of coming away victorious. He had to be just as prepared to die for his Guild as Traven had been.

"Are you sure you're ready fer this?"

The Altmer sighed heavily. "I could prepare for a year and still feel like I stood no hope in Oblivion," he admitted, his stomach tying up in knots as he thought about it. "But one cannot delay the inevitable."

Rush grimaced at his comment, her fingers tightening around the key as she eyed the door awkwardly. "You do know that you could just give that Gem to me, right?"

"I wish it were that simple, and I appreciate your concern," he replied, shaking his head. He walked to the door defiantly, holding out his palm in expectation of receiving the key. "But I'm afraid this is something I simply have to do by myself."

xxx

Two assassins rode along the Gold Road in virtual silence. They had exhausted anything they might have wanted to say, a desperate plea from a desperate Argonian, trying to persuade a Dunmer to change her mind about going to Anvil, to seek a healer in Kvatch. She had ignored him completely.

He _was_ right though. Having an arrow embedded in her shoulder was not an enviable position to find oneself in, and while the pinches of pain that accompanied it were hardly worth mentioning at all, they soon began to grow tedious, more a cause of annoyance than discomfort. She looked at it scrutinisingly as they continued to ride, prodding the muscle around the arrow shaft with the tips of her gloved fingers, grimacing at the stabbing pain that followed.

Finally she gave up and reined Shadowmere in as they approached an inn on the side of the road. Turner looked at her cynically, but slowed Snowdrop to a stop as she dropped to the ground, walking the demon into the stables with her right arm hanging semi-useless at her side.

"What are you doing?" he asked her, a mild tone of exasperation in his voice. He had given up trying to predict what she was going to do weeks ago, but walking into an inn dressed like a stereotypical assassin really was odd even for her.

"There's an arrow in my arm." Was the only reply he received, though it was really stating the obvious. Crimson blood stains were visible against her black armour whenever they caught the light, and the end of the shaft was still unmistakeable protruding from her shoulder. The Argonian had to admit that it was likely to be painful, but he'd lived through much worse, however bad she made it out to be. But she was still speaking: "I wouldn't want it to become infected." There was at least _some_ logic in this statement, and she wasn't really stating the obvious as much as before, but it was still fairly clear to see.

"What does going into an inn have to do with an arrow in your arm? Firstly, we look like assassins, and secondly, if you walk in there with an arrow in your shoulder then people will start talking, and we don't _want_ people to start talking." Turner folded his arms as he spoke, as if he were lecturing some naughty child who had just draw all over a wall rather than an assassin who was older than him, for starters, and far more experienced.

A grin was clearly visible beneath the Dunmer's hood, even if the rest of her face was hidden in the shadows. "The inn, I'm afraid, has nothing to do with my shoulder." She was stating the obvious again, and it was everything Turner could do to keep from snapping at her. Even with one arm she could still kill him in a matter of mere seconds. She seated herself on the floor beneath the stable roof and began prodding at her wound again. "We do not know what lies ahead and it pays to be prepared," she explained slowly, tapping on the shaft of the arrow to see if she could feel it. "Obviously the Black Hand are being set up by one of their own... Perhaps a Silencer... And that means that they will be formidable if we were to come up against them... And I don't trust you to protect us."

The Argonian froze in realisation as she wrapped the fingers of her left hand around the arrow shaft, testing how much she could move it without any real work. "I _told_ you to see Oleta!" he objected strongly. Blood might not affect him as much as it once had, but he still didn't enjoy seeing it, and this seemed... needless.

"We don't have time," the words that exited her mouth claimed, though in actuality her tone said '_I'm not prepared to return to Kvatch_', and there was really nothing to say on the matter after that. She was more inclined to rip an arrow from her own shoulder than she was to visit a healer in a city that disturbed her, which placed her somewhere along that fine line between crazy and sentimental. "Alcohol would be useful..." she muttered, half to herself and half at Turner, who took the hint and proceeded to slip from Snowdrop's back, only managing to stay on his feet as he hit the ground because he had a strong grip on his horse's saddle in readiness to counter his altogether too rife clumsiness.

He tied the animal's reins to the stable fence and glanced down at himself, wondering exactly how he was going to be able to stroll in without being recognised as an assassin instantly. The black leather and hood didn't exactly scream '_I am a model citizen_'. Shrugging it off, the young Argonian disappeared inside, returning somewhere between five and ten minutes later with a glass bottle wrapped in thick thread at the base, a cork used as a stopper in the top.

The Dunmer was still sat in the stables, her legs crossed innocently with an arrow shaft still firmly lodged in her shoulder. She gestured for him to hand her the bottle, and ripped the cork off with her teeth in order to inspect the contents, dropping the seal onto the ground impassively. "This won't do much good..." she muttered, half to herself and half to Turner. "I shouldn't have expected somewhere like this to have anything useful in stock..." She glared at the building for a few moments, as if it were likely to burst into flames under her gaze; despite her injuries she was less than vulnerable, and she liked to make sure that anybody who saw her knew that. "Though I suppose that alcohol makes one... numb." She took a draft from the bottle quickly, before placing it between her legs so that it would not fall, loosening the straps over her right shoulder with the fingers of her good hand. The action didn't make much difference, but she suspected it would in a minute or two.

Idari shot Turner a propitiative look. "It is necessary, you know," she pointed out, keeping her voice low. She glanced back at her wound. "This way is quicker. Lives are at stake; there is no time to visit a healer. It will be over quickly... I only have to remove it and then magic can do the rest."

"You _could_ have visited a healer. Easily," the Argonian retaliated. His own shoulder was starting to throb now at the mere thought of her tearing the arrow from her body, and he was in half a mind to run away. At least that way he wouldn't have to travel to Anvil. But he stayed; he at least owed her that after the number of times she had saved him from near death, willingly or not. He shook his head firmly. "I don't want to watch this," he stated, so that there was no room for error in his words. Gesturing back at the inn, he continued: "I'll be inside." '_Gottshaw_' it said on the sign outside the door, and it had been empty upon his first visit, save for a drunken guard and an obnoxious Bosmeri innkeeper. He had no problems with sitting in there, if it meant to avoid the blood being shed outside.

She froze as seconds ticked by, the silence echoing around the stables until the sound of a horse moving shattered it, bringing her out of her stupor and back to reality. Finally she nodded; it was a begrudging nod, as if she accepted his opinions and yet didn't want him to leave her to do this alone, but she understood. He left her then, glancing back over his shoulder at her as she tested the area around her wound for the umpteenth time, conjuring more needless pain for her crippled limb.

Idari remained that way for a few more seconds, before drawing her Blade of Woe from a location that never seemed to be quite the same as the one before. She ran it through the leather of her armour, just above and just below the puncture, so that the rip was sufficiently large enough for her to remove the arrow. After a while she placed the hilt of the dagger between her teeth; the logic behind it was to stop her from biting her tongue due to pain, because even though she _could_ deal with the pain, that did not instantly mean it was not going to hurt.

A few deep breaths later and her fingers closed around the arrow shaft again, her red eyes closing instinctively. Without warning, she pulled on the wood with as much of her strength as she could muster. The barbs on the arrowhead ripped at her flesh, tearing the wound back open so that dark crimson blood began to stream from her shoulder. The pain was intense, so much so that it was verging on surreal as she gritted her teeth against the weapon. A brief pause afforded her some illusion of mitigation before she continued with the task at hand, the bloodied arrow lacerating more of the muscle in her shoulder that she knew would just never be returned to its full strength with her pitiful skills of Restoration, though maybe even Oleta would have difficulty in completely repairing it now. Past the point of no return, she yanked at the projectile one last time so that it ripped through her blue skin which issued yet more blood in protest to its disturbance, the side of her armour now well and truly coated in the deep red liquid.

She threw the arrow aside, growling vehement curses against the blade in her mouth, which she tossed away a second later apathetically. It was a good weapon, and had served her well as she had killed the Black Hand one by one, but she deemed the present situation more serious than the loss of a single replaceable dagger. Idari pressed her left hand against her shoulder, ignoring the wave of agony that swallowed her senses, making her struggle to find the right words as her brain refused to work to her bidding, battling against the reflexes her body demanded for.

If _only_ Turner knew magic.

The Dunmer choked out the first few words, and the immediate response was the skin knitting itself back together, though the wound ran far deeper and she was instantly gifted a vicious black bruise for her troubles, barely visible against her dark complexion. She found the rest of the incantation presently and relaxed just a little as she felt the muscles within her shoulder repairing themselves at the bidding of the spell, hopefully preventing the bruise turning into something of a blood blister. Blinking back the tears in her red eyes, she rose to her feet while instinctively rolling her shoulder. The trauma made it painful, but she was certain that she could fight with this without too much hassle.

She set to work fixing her armour around the laceration so that it was not too obvious. The arrow itself had done very minimal damage to the leather, leaving nothing but a small tear, which she fixed using magic mainly to hide the wound beneath. Finally she turned her attention to the blood that covered most of her side, picking up the bottle at her feet again, taking another swig for a job well done, and pain well borne, before upending the beverage over the right side of her armour, hoping it would dissolve some of the sanguine liquid. She was right, partly. The assassin watched as the liquid dripping down her side turned from a golden brown colour to a vibrant red until it splashed into the dry brown earth below, her body fluid being lapped up by the thirsty ground beneath her. She cleaned off the rest of the blood with water she created from melting magically conjured ice with a wave of heat.

The Dunmer looked up and down the Gold Road briefly before placing her Blade of Woe back in its hiding place, the memories the weapon held almost compelling her to leave it behind. Finally she approached the door of the Gottshaw Inn; it looked like a fairly decent, for a building situated anywhere other than within a city. Most inns this far away from what was considered standard civilization were falling apart at the seams, rotting slowly due to lack of funds - or maybe lack of caring, on the part of their owners. The Gottshaw Inn was in acceptable condition; the red bricks of the lower floor looked fairly clean, though the proximity of this place to Kvatch had probably afforded it more than its fair share of rainfall over the past few months, and the upper floor was painted white, accentuated by dark brown beams of wood that stood out prominantly against the pale background. Some form of plant that closely resembled ivy snaked up the side of the building, chipping some of the paint away to reveal a dingy grey substance underneath, and while the windows of the lower floor appeared to be clean, but the upper floor seemed to have been neglected, dark water stains sinking beneath them while they themselves appeared to be covered in black grime.

She pushed on the door gently, warranting a creaking sigh from hinges that had not been oiled for some years. The sound it emitted caused her to walk into an inn with three pairs of eyes staring at her, attention she did not wish to hold. Fate had been kind to her, and granted her the powers to at least appear to be functioning in society when needs called for it, but that did not mean she revelled in holding the rapt attention of the three occupants of a small inn along the winding path that was the Gold Road.

Taking stock of her surroundings, Idari had to wonder why this place was so empty, though she didn't expect that the residents of Kvatch had much disposable income at the moment. The publican was a Bosmeri man dressed in a green tunic worn over a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the collar loose; he had shoulder length brown hair and an abnormally large nose that dominated the vast majority of his face, and disproportionately small brown eyes that seemed to be attempting to sum up the mysterious stranger as she did the same to him. Asides Turner, the only other occupant was an Imperial guard half slumped over a tankard of some alcoholic beverage or other; the Dark Elf couldn't say she blamed the man for drinking on the job - it wasn't as if there was anybody in this place worth protecting.

The Argonian, upon noticing her, stood quickly and abandoned his table without a second glance. It looked as though he might have bought some food from the Bosmer, though she wasn't exactly sure of this, as the look on his face rather suggested that he would have been put off eating anything by the mere _thought_ of the blood being spilt outside. He walked past her silently and out of the door, allowing her to follow after him, despite disapproving looks from the Bosmer at the bar who scowled at the thought of losing more customers.

Once they were in the open again he looked about cautiously, his eyes fixing on the place that was obviously covered in her watered down blood. He looked back at her, golden eyes focusing on her shoulder which, to the casual observer, now looked completely unharmed before nodding slowly.

"I don't want to go to Anvil," he muttered quietly, glancing away from her on instinct as he could almost predict her reaction perfectly in his mind.

Instead of replying, she untied Snowdrop from the wooden fence that she had been tied to, pressing the reins into the Argonian's hand before mounting Shadowmere cleanly, the twinge of protest from her newly healed wound ignored. Belatedly she spoke: "I'm afraid you're going to have to explain why to me if you expect to be let off that easily," she stated, looking down the road towards Anvil and attempting to evaluate how long it would take to arrive at the city.

Turner locked her in an icy stare that she didn't fail to miss as he thought she had done. He lifted himself onto the mare's back, sliding into the saddle with a frown. "Anvil was my home," he admitted begrudgingly, but not without an accompanying sneer. "That is all you need know."

"Then there is no reason to avoid it," Idari pointed out. He had been expecting his reaction from her, and she was probably right, but he wasn't ready to go back. After a pause she spoke again: "I have never been to Anvil. Your knowledge should be helpful." Shadowmere took the hint and set off at a run, leaving Snowdrop to catch up with some considerable difficulty.

The Argonian willed the walls of Anvil to stay out of sight forever, but it wasn't to be. The all-too-familiar smell of salt water hit him first and the memories hit him like an ocean wave would a beach, and he would have stopped and turned back there, if he didn't owe Idari his life for what she'd done for him in the past. The sun warmed them gently, eliciting more familiar sights and smells from this place, and now the sound of the tides filled his ears. He cringed at the sound, screwing his eyes tightly shut to try and block everything out. He had been _happy_ in Anvil, but he couldn't call it home anymore.

The Dark Elf, taking in the details of his discomfort with graphic accuracy, walked both horses into the stables after ordering him to dismount, shocked at how he somehow managed to stay on his feet without trying for a change. He remained a little way back on the path, staring at the city as if he were dumbfounded, his fingers clenching and unclenching into fists so that he looked more angry than troubled.

"It's just a town," Idari insisted when she rejoined him, her eyes set as stone. "Just the same as Cheydinhal, or Bruma, or..." She stopped in her tracks before deciding to continue with the thought anyway. "Or Sadrith Mora. Sadrith Mora was my home as Anvil was yours, and I... understand." It was strangely tender, coming from her, to act as though she actually cared about anything or anyone, even though they both knew she did and neither of them could pinpoint why. She _did_ understand. She didn't want to return to Sadrith Mora ever again, but the thought of it having possibly been destroyed by the Red Mountain crushed her spirit a little.

"The people will recognise me," Turner pointed out, forcibly tearing his eyes from the walls of the city to gaze at the Dunmer instead. "When I left I was a bard, I can't return an-" He cut himself off before he said the word '_assassin_', because he scarcely wanted to believe it himself. He had changed so very much since he had left this town that it hardly seemed possible.

She almost - _almost_ - put a hand on his arm to comfort him, but changed her mind at the last minute and placed both definitively on her hips. "Well whatever you may think of Anvil, lives are at stake. My _honour_ is at stake." Honour. An interesting concept for an assassin who murdered whoever got in her way, though Turner knew far better than to point this out to her. He knew what she meant anyway; honour among murderers. A murderer who murders murderers... Well... "The dead drop location is in a barrel behind a pond. I hope it can shed some light on this subject."

The Dunmer approached the gates of the city firmly, the katana on her back glinting in the sunlight with every step she took. As she waited for the guards to coordinate opening the things she turned back to watch the Argonian, half for fear that he was going to just run away from his past. She had been so concerned with keeping her background a complete secret that she had nigh on forgotten about his, to the extent that she now realised she knew nothing about him from before they met, save that his parents were slaves - and they both knew that that was pure speculation, as nobody could be completely sure about this matter. Idari concentrated on his for a long time, until the gates were fully open and the guards called for her to go through, before she span on her heels and strode through with a heavy sigh. She knew he wasn't scared of her anymore and therefore that she would have no influence in his actions. She didn't really blame him.

The city of Anvil shocked her a little. Having never been there, the Dark Elf had never expected it to be so... clean, or so light and open. The only city that she counted as both light and clean that she had seen so far in Cyrodiil was Cheydinhal, and that was almost at the complete opposite end of the province. Anvil was nothing like Cheydinhal though.

The road was wide and paved, stretching off in both directions with a large tree planted in the centre, surrounded by stone seating for the residents of the city as they went about their daily lives. Unlike Cheydinhal, these houses were relatively small, made of white bricks with columns holding up the higher floors or the roofs which were uniformly covered in vibrant terracotta tiles, the colour of burnt umber, reaching domes rather than peaks so the town looked altogether more Hammerfellian than Cyrodilic. Looking to her left, she took in the large stone statue of a mermaid that overlooked a small lake, the path leading right up to it. It looked as though she was headed that way.

A glance behind her showed that the gate had been shut by the brutally efficient guards, and to her mild displeasure she noted that she couldn't see Turner at all. She had thought more of him than to merely abandon her at the thought of a single city.

Nestled against the wall behind the lake was a small barrel that appeared to have been placed there for no reason at all and was in surprisingly good condition considering how exposed it was to the elements here. Idari approached it, lifting the lid to find it empty. Whoever had set her and Lachance up was obviously running late today.

She slunk to the statue and cast a powerful chameleon spell on herself, instant disappearing from the view of whomever was foolish enough to watch her.

Unsure of how long she had been waiting there, the Dunmer quickly found herself growing bored, fighting herself to remain attentive in case something important should happen in whatever momentary lapse she should experience. Her respite finally delivered her as the harsh claws of dusk began spreading their tendrils of darkness over the creamy white horizon, shattering the light into a thousand different colours that an artist could spend years attempting to capture but never quite succeed with.

Her senses were suddenly alerted to another presence, that of a small Bosmer who couldn't have been all that much older than Idari. His blond hair was scraped into a tight knot on top of his head, revealing his tapered ears clearly. He wore an open brown vest that revealed part of his torso and simple brown trousers, complete with moccasins, his arms bare with something scrunched in one hand. Approaching cautiously, the Bosmer made his way to the barrel and opened it, glancing around furtively before dropping whatever he was holding inside, his other hand travelling to a pocket of his trousers before he shook his head with a sly grin and began to walk away, looking straight through the slightly irate Dunmer who lurked invisibly only a few metres away.

The Dark Elf was prepared to spring out and confront the man when he walked into what appeared to be absolutely nothing, until a poorly held invisibility spell dissipated at the contact to reveal a significantly taller Argonian garbed in black leather. Idari couldn't help but allow a smirk to creep over her lips, however unwillingly she did so.

When the Wood Elf took a shocked step backwards, Idari leapt from her hiding place to seize the opportunity, her chameleon spell dispelled as she grabbed the terrified Bosmer from behind and pressed the Blade of Woe to his throat, despite him being slightly larger than her.

His blue eyes shot open to almost delirious proportions, arms flying into the air as he felt the cold ebony tickle the skin of his neck threateningly. "I... I didn't mean to do anything wrong!" he stuttered, gaze wheeling about wildly as he attempted to think of a way to escape. "It... I... The robed man paid me to put that note in the barrel!" Terror was causing a sheen of perspiration to form on his brow and his hands were obviously growing clammy at the thought of what whoever held the dagger to his gullet might want with the mysterious man in the lighthouse cellar. "He was outside the lighthouse... I... I think he lives there! Tha- That's all I know!"

Idari snarled savagely. "And where's the gold that should have been with the parchment you delivered?" she growled, the edge of her knife forced into his neck with the perfect amount of force to elicit pain but not draw blood. "Who is to say I should not kill you and eliminate a witness?" Her accent was masked again, so the only thing that the Bosmer would have to identify her by was the fact that she was female. Turner shifted uncomfortably as she made the threat, leaving her to believe that he likely knew this man personally.

"Please!" the Bosmer cried, pleading now, just quietly enough so that the guards at the gate would not hear him. He knew that if he shouted for their attention then he would lose his life as a result. "He lives in the lighthouse just outside the city walls! In... In the cellar! There's a... horrible smell from down there... almost like something died in there! Talk to Ulfgar Fog-Eye! He should... He should have a key if you want to... go down there..." He was silent for a few brief moments before continuing to beg: "P-Please let me go! I... I don't... I don't know anything else, I swear!" Tears were pooling in his eyes as she dug the knife just a little bit further into his neck, a thin line of blood falling from the tiny wound it left.

She looked prepared to kill him, her blade poised, her expression set... But something was causing Turner's stomach to knot painfully within him and he touched her arm gently, shaking his head to show his disapproval in an action that shocked all three of them immensely, however as soon as the Bosmer appeared to be trying to look at his face he turned his head away abruptly.

Idari muttered a few words and the Wood Elf crumpled into a heap at her touch, stepping away from his body quickly as he fell to the ground. Sensing the Argonian's apprehension, she explained: "He's only sleeping," she whispered. "By the time he comes round, this will either be over, or we'll be gone..." She paused, perplexed, the twist of her Vvardenfell accent returning to the edge of her voice as she spoke. "What was that about?"

Turner glanced down at the unconscious mer and sighed. "This place is my home. These people know me, and I know them. Enilroth, apprentice to the smith here... I don't want to be associated with any deaths that happen here. I don't want them to remember..." He trailed off, refusing to finish the sentence himself, taking a longing glance at the buildings around them. "It's been two years since I left, and everything still looks exactly the same."

"It's been two years since I left..." The Dark Elf stopped, her voice dropping to a whisper for no real reason as there was nobody else around to hear. She sounded almost upset, yet there was a defiant glint in her eyes when she spoke again. "Since I left Sadrith Mora."

The Argonian nodded in aquiescence. "It's never easy to leave one's home," he admitted slowly, a grim expression covering his features. "But Fate is a cruel mistress, and we must do as we must."

Idari blinked slowly before speaking: "I didn't expect you to have followed me in here."

"I didn't expect you to not notice me like that. I had always suspected you to use Detect Life spells at a time like this," he smirked, his reply verging on the point of being terse but with an obvious air of humour about it. "You'll reach the lighthouse quicker if you head out that way," he told her, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Dock Gate. "Ulfgar's definitely not the Traitor though," he said after a pause. "He's been here even longer than I have, and he's devoted to maintaining his lighthouse, and to Dibella. That, and Enilroth would have given him up in a heartbeat in order to save his skin. Either way, this _robed man_ is a stranger to all the people of Anvil, and you need to be careful."

"_I_ need to be careful?" she repeated slowly, raising an eyebrow at the thought. "And what, pray, will _you_ be doing, pondscum?"

Turner stopped dead, as if the thought had hardly occured to him at all, or as if he were going to suddenly come over all defensive about one simple question. "I'm not a member of the Black Hand," he pointed out, voice hushed and eyes focussed on a spot on the ground a few feet away from the walls so that he could only make out the Dunmer in his peripheral vision. "This is off-"

She cut him off with a sweep of her hand. "You've already admitted that you do not wish them to know what you have become. What were your plans? Speak to whoever you used to know and try to explain to them where you have been for two years, and what you have done? No, pondscum, it won't work like that I assure you." She spoke knowledgably, as though she had experienced what he was go through at some point in her life, though she refused to elaborate any further. They both had secrets they were just not willing to share.

The Argonian sighed heavily, throwing a glance at Enilroth's body as it lay on the ground, a single trickle of blood running down his chest from the point where the Hero of Kvatch had cut him with her blade. "You're right, you know. As it is, I can't guarantee that he didn't recognise me before you knocked him out..." He turned, glancing down the road that he had indicated for Idari to follow in the direction of the lighthouse. "I get the feeling I'll never find a place to call my home again..." There was unmistakeable sadness in his voice now, as his eyes swept over the streets that he had known so very well what felt like a lifetime ago. "Come along then. We have lives to save and honour to restore... That is hardly a task to be hesitant over."

xxx

The necromancer fell to a well placed fireball spell, singing his robes and skin until he almost resembled a piece of blackened meat, slumping to the ground. Seanturco winced as he ended another life, and felt the refreshing feeling of his magicka being replenished slowly as he inspected what he had done. More pointless death.

Rush had left him by now. Run off to kill more necromancers in the opposite direction at a branch in a tunnel some way back now. He hoped to the Nine that she wouldn't find Mannimarco before he did, even though she was just about the only person who stood a remote chance of killing the lich... or was he an Altmer? Every source that the newest Arch-Mage had read seemed to contradict the previous one about just who, or what, Mannimarco was.

He rounded the next corner carefully, back pressed flush against the stones as he crept around in order to remain vigilant. This room was considerably larger than the others the cave had presented him so far, and the spindles of light dancing across the walls showed that there was at least some water here, and on closer inspection it seemed as though the vast majority of this room was full of the stuff. He peered closer, at an elaborate stone alter adourned with a corpse that looked relatively fresh, by comparison with the ones he had seen in necromancer lairs in the past. A figure was hunched over the body, studying it in the finest of detail, a black robe covering most of their form as they performed some questionable action on the cadaver.

Seanturco approached carefully, his footsteps light against the rocky floor of the cave and his breathing shallow, a hand on the hilt of his weapon in case anything should happen, and as many Ayleid words as he could remember pulled onto the tip of his tongue just in case. Rush had taught him to be vigilant when he was in danger of facing Mannimarco, but he already knew that this figure was the only threat in the room and so stupidly paid the warning little heed, edging closer with very little thought.

Suddenly he felt an other-worldly pain fill his body as talons of freezing cold fire pierced his very soul, probing about with little or no respect for his well-being. He tried to fight the feeling back manically, but his arms felt anchored at his sides, heavy as stone, and his legs were rooted to the spot almost as if they had been chained down to prevent him fleeing. As the robed figure turned to face him, a fear overtook him as giant bone structures surrounded the small peninsula of rock the pair were stood upon, some almost eight feet high and some over a foot thick, forming a cage of sorts around what was a hunter and his idiotic prey.

The stranger drew himself to his full height while still shrouded in shadow and chuckled eerily so that the whole cave seemed to quake at his very whim, his prongs of fire digging deeper, searching for something useful.

"And they spoke so highly of you..." he grinned, forcing his barbed spears of magic into his prisoner's body for added emphasis. "I must say, I was expecting Traven himself to be leading this raid. I was _so_ looking forward to disposing of my old foe. Still-" Even through the shadows, Seanturco could see his face drawing into a sneer. "-_You'll do_."

The torture penetrated deeper, wrapping its claws around his very soul as he attempted futilely to fight against it, until he felt a brief respite as it jabbed more closely to the place where the Colossal Soul Gem was hidden in his robes. The stranger frowned as his magic was rebounded away from his captive and forced it back again, doubling the power behind it to the point where Seanturco felt certain that dying would be much more pleasant than continuing this treatment, but then the power of the gem sent all of the man's power spiralling away so that he felt he could breathe easily again.

The figure stepped from the shadows, a shaft of light now falling upon him to reveal silver hair, golden skin, pointed ears. He was Mannimarco alright, the legendary King of Worms, his own symbol emblazened upon the chest of his floor length black robe. A staff of twisted wood was held on his back, ending in sharp spurs twisting this way and that, humming with magicka. His features were twisted into a snarl for a short moment as he pushed his energy back at the unfortunate Altmer before him, but when he received the same treatment as the previous two attempts a wry smile tugged at the very corners of his lips. "Perhaps you will prove more useful than Traven after all..."

Seanturco attempted to fight the latest bout of pain by drawing on his own supply of magicka as best he could in the current situation, still unable to move any of his limbs. He rummaged through his mind, trying to find an opening to tap into the magic he knew inhabited his sub-conscience in order to break Mannimarco's spell over him. "I'll never help you," he managed to growl between his clenched teeth when his futile attempts failed.

The King of Worms chuckled. "Oh my dear, nobody said you would be helping willingly. I shall take my time studying your corpse, don't you worry, and then your soul will be forfeited to me." He began to circle around the newest Arch-Mage slowly, his spell taking jabs that seemed to be less painful than the previous ones. "I seek power, mage, and so I acquire and study those who hold it. In that, at least, your precious guild and I are the same. You attempt to define things by such labels as _good_ or _evil_, and do not realise that they are mere manifestations of the same, that your vain attempts to brand me as the villain and destroy me will always end fruitlessly. So I watch, and I wait, and eventually you all come to me, one by one. Perhaps I will collect Traven myself when I have finished with you."

A snarl echoed from the immobilised High Elf's lips as he felt the magical hold on his limbs just begin to dissipate, but not quite effectively enough to do anything about it. An unwilling thought crossed his mind for less than a fraction of a second about how Mannimarco would not have to collect Hannibal Traven's soul because it was already here, already collected in the artifact that the necromancer had created to hold it. All in all, Seanturco had already completed the ancient lich's plan for him.

"Fight me properly," the ex-vampire muttered. He could feel the hold on him lessening further and further, the power of movement almost within grasp, the hilt of his sword so close to his unmovingly fingers; however much he imposed upon them to move, they never quite managed to take hold of it.

"Oh my dear, you're only delaying the inevitable," chortled the necromancer, circling his victim again before sending another stab of pain through his body, drawing a murmur of objection. He seemed puzzled this time as to why his magicka was not having the desired effect and resolved to try one more attempt before physically allowing his immobilisation spell to dispel.

The weight lifted from the Altmer's limbs as suddenly as it had appeared, releasing him in order that he might draw his weapon, which he did so with more professionalism than he had previously. It was now or never, and Rush's training was echoing around his head incessantly, about how to stand and in which way to react. Sword in hand, he awaited Mannimarco's first move, his body aching from the pain it had undergone but rigid with determination to end this here. Too many people had died for him to fail.

"A mage with a sword?" Mannimarco teased him, his tone patronising. "None of your predecessors were quite so well prepared." Apparently by 'not so well prepared' the lich was also referring to the fact that he could not seem to use his powers to turn the mortal before him into a Worm Thrall, though admitting such a failing was not an option for a man of such extraordinary power.

However the King of Worms seemed wholely unbothered by this minor setback, a malicious grin still holding his features as his hands glowed with balls of golden magicka, and a swirling mist beside the young mage drew his attention as it formed itself specifically into the body of a lich. The creature looked formidable, with red eyes fueled solely by the power of the necromancer who had created him, putrid skin dripping from age old bones covered in red cloth, but with a brain to match. Seanturco had studied liches for some time in the past during his Conjuration training, and had drawn the simple conclusion that they were merely skeletons with the intelligence to use complex magic. Clenched in its overstretched fingers - that more closely resembled talons - was a staff that positively bristled with power. The red glow found its target almost instantaneously.

The Altmer dived aside as a spell careered towards him, very nearly impaling himself on his own sword while Mannimarco watching on languidly as his creation took care of the intruder. He could almost tell that his simple weapon would have little effect on this lich, even with its enchantment to help, and so continued to avoid the charms it threw at him seemed to grow ever more powerful, rebounding from the bone cage before they fizzled out into the air.

In response, he chucked a poorly aimed lightning bolt soaring towards the summoned lich, while the King of Worms - who simply appeared more of an Altmer than a lich - chuckled audibly. The air began to swirl again, this time forming the shape of a skeleton armed with a broadsword and what looked like an ancient iron shield, rusted around the edges and dented from use. It's empty eye sockets locked onto Seanturco as it ran forward, the summoned lich almost destroying it with a spell a few moments later.

The ex-vampire was a little at a loss for what to do now, finding himself backing up against the bony pillars that jutted from the ground imposingly, trapping him in a tiny space. There was no way that he could fight using a sword at the same time as avoiding being shot at by forms of magic that he never even knew had existed. He threw a spell at the skeleton out of desperation, only to have it strike the shield and do little to no damage; he tried the same with the lich, only to have the creature absorb it and fire a similar one straight back at him, looming towards him slowly.

He dug through the ideas running past his conscience at a mile a minute, trying with all his might to find one that might work in saving him from this situation. He met the blade of the skeleton as it swung overhead using a move that Rush had taught him along their journey together, barely avoiding the next spell that flew past his ear mere inches from his head, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end instantaneously. The skeleton's shield was brought around towards his face, only just prevented by a last minute duck that very nearly resulted in him stumbling backwards into the bones, proving to his frantic mind just how pathetic his situation seemed right now.

And for once in a long time, he didn't wish he was a vampire.

Even as a vampire he would have eventually met a similar fate, just more slowly and more painfully. At least this way it would be over quickly.

He had just about resolved to give up his soul to Mannimarco when an age-old memory crossed his mind. A memory from what felt like a lifetime ago when he was in the Summerset Isles with his parents, a memory of a Word. _The Blessed Word_, they had called it, bestowed upon young born under the good grace of the Ritual, smiled upon by Mara herself. It was said that _The Blessed Word_ had the power to drive back the undead in times of darkness, or so they had told him. He drew upon the memory, feeding it until he could almost feel the _Word_ on the tip of his tongue in preparation for his salvation, or at least his break in this fighting lark.

A single uttering of the _Word_ and the lich and skeleton dissolved into scarcely more than dust, mid-spell or mid-slash respectively, as if they had never been there at all.

Mannimarco's smile disappeared instantly.

"Impressive," the King of Worms conceded, a silver dagger appearing in his hand from what looked to be thin air. The look of frustration on his face showed that any further attempts at summoning his minions was failing. This time green streams of magicka poked into the Altmer's subconscious, erecting barriers that were not broken by the power of the soul gem in his pocket.

As Seanturco felt his link to the magic within him forcibly severed, he couldn't help but swear vehemently, especially as arguably the world's most powerful necromancer was planning upon fighting him while not Silenced. If he could have done, he would have given up and gone home right now. His chances of success were dwindling into single figures before his very eyes.

The lich moved faster than the new Arch-Mage would have ever anticipated, though he should have acknowledged that he had both the means and the power to increase his every attribute by the use of magic. Though he parried the slash of Mannimarco's dagger with some difficulty, he had to wonder why he wasn't being finished off with magic; the _Blessed Word_ didn't have any effect on his ability to take damage from magic, which was quite obvious by the fact that the Silence spell had been cast after it had been spoken, in fact it was of very limited use at all, only acting on undead, summoned or not.

Another blow, stronger than the first, was delivered to his weaker side and met with innate difficulty, barely able to stop the blade than to throw the other Altmer's balance off. He felt himself losing ground step by step as the attacks rained in from all directions. Oblivious to the sound of footsteps behind him he focused solely on not dying, a couple of times coming closer than he would have liked to being injured.

His surroundings were suddenly tangible to him again when he felt a bone spike against his back again, very nearly losing his head in the process of his discovery. He was growing tired now, with no sign of Mannimarco weakening - probably alleviating his fatigue with his burgeoning magicka supply, which probably explained why he was concentrating on fighting rather than merely casting some Destruction spell to finish him off - and he knew that in a minute he would make some fatal mistake. And he wasn't scared.

He continued to fight for his life, hardly able to comprehend why he hadn't died yet.

Without warning, a bolt of lightning flew between the bone columns to strike the necromancer on the shoulder, scarcely avoiding removing the mage's ear in the process. It hit an invisible shield and dissolved harmlessly, but it distracted both of the Altmer simultaneously.

A burst of pain erupted from Seanturco's side as a dagger slid between two of his ribs while his attention was drawn, Mannimarco seizing the opportunity for retaliation more quickly. As the ex-vampire crumpled to the floor the King of Worms turned his attention to the owner of the spell, immobilising the rogue Orcish battlemage with no difficulty, admiring her spirit as she attempted to fight against him even now. His magicka wrapped its icy tenticles around her soul, ensnaring it as he began to work his spell to imprison her as his mindless minion for an eternity.

Rush grunted at the pain, powerless to prevent it. She hated herself for turning up to this battle so incredibly late, and it seemed fitting that she should die for her failings. The passageway that she had run down had led her to a cavern filled with necromancers that had taken far longer than she had expected to dispatch, though she realised now that she was obviously underestimating Mannimarco's most elite followers, the best of the best. It was an apt punishment.

She could almost feel her very core rotting away inside of her with every single second that passed, the feeling spreading outwards, spiraling its way towards her heart and mind until suddenly it ended.

The pained shriek was the only thing she managed to comprehend before she collapsed to the cavern floor, unconscious.

Seanturco pulled himself to his feet, bloodied sword in hand while the other was clasped over his wounded side to attempt to stem the flow of blood as Mannimarco lay dying. He had taken his attention from the Altmer, written him off for dead, not expecting him to have the strength to plunge his enchanted blade through the necromancer's back with as much force as he could muster. He had achieved what so many before him had failed to do, and he had bested the King of Worms.

His head began to spin as his blood poured from the open wound, tainting his light blue robes without predjudice. Still he waited for the barriers in his mind to lift, for his ability to tap back into his magicka and heal himself; he waited for the bone claws to retract so that he could attend to Rush. He kicked himself for being so slow, because he could have easily prevented much of that spell occuring if he had just summoned his strength a minute earlier. If she died, she had sacrificed herself for him, another death attributed only to his incompetance. If she died he would never forgive himself.

Again his thoughts returned to his birthright from Mara as he sunk to the floor, unable to stand as his head whirled giving him no respite. He dropped the sword he still held to clutch his other hand to his injury, feeling his blood snaking between his digits nonetheless but still more concerned about the safety of a woman that for a time he had done his utmost to rid himself of. Mara had granted him something else, he recalled his mother telling him when he was but a child, no older than five, the ability to call upon her in times of great distress, for healing and for her aid, but only for himself. If he could have done, he would have prayed for Rush a million times over, because he was aware that his own wounds would be healed almost the moment the stony pillars in his mind allowed him to think clearly. But Mara granted only solace for himself.

He prayed to Her as he heard Mannimarco wheezing his final breaths, just out of reach of anything that would heal him as the enchantment on the sword drained his strength to a level where he could not even utter a simple spell to recover from his fatal wound. He begged Mara for aid, for Her holy help, and She granted him what he wished for, his side glowing with a queer pale light as it resealed itself as if there had never been an injury there at all, even the dizziness in his head clearing. He thanked Mara for Her troubles.

Feeling invigourated Seanturco climbed back to his feet, collecting his blade and bringing it down heavily on the necromancer's neck, severing his head cleanly. Strangely for him he felt nothing in this death other than relief, no bitterness, no regret, just a sense of odd satisfaction at a job completed. Almost instantly he welcomed the crumbling of the barriers that the late King of Worms had built in his mind, and moments later the bones began to retract too, revealing the long sought after freedom that he fully deserved after all he had been forced to endure.

Wrenching the Staff of Worms from the lich's back he escaped from what had once been his prison without even so much as a second fleeting glance, hurrying to Rush's side where she still lay unconscious after her brief but severe ordeal. She appeared as though she was alive, her chest rising and falling with her ragged breaths. He woke her by collecting some water from one of the pools and splashing it over her face, making her splutter awkwardly.

"Are you alright?" Seanturco ventured as soon as she seemed fit enough to listen.

The Orc's nose wrinkled as she thought. "I'm not the one who got stabbed," she settled on eventually, groaning as she moved to sit up. Her insides didn't feel any less decomposed than they had felt when the magicka causing it was still in place, so apparently Mannimarco's process was non-reversible, compelling her heart to sink. Still, she put on a brave face, hauling herself to her feet.

"Yes," the Altmer conceded. "But I'm not the one who was being turned into a member of the walking dead."

Rush sneered before chuckling lightly. "Occupational hazard there," she pointed out, throwing a glance at the headless corpse of the once great King of Worms. "I thought you woulda had trouble with all them undead, but he didn't summon any... Why?"

The ex-vampire smirked. "It's a perk of being born under the sign of the Ritual," he told her. "Knowledge of a _Blessed Word_ that sends the undead running for cover. Or, in the case of summoned undead, back to whence they came from."

"Lucky," the battlemage muttered. "If you had been born under any other sign you woulda been killed."

"A twist of fate." His bloodstained hand reached into his robes and drew out the Colossal Soul Gem that contained the soul of Hannibal Traven. "Traven was a better Arch-Mage than people gave him credit for..." he remarked, sighing as his blood coated the gem. "Come along then," he indicated the exit over his shoulder, the Staff of Worms still clasped in his free hand. "We have to go back to the Arcane University before we can return for the Battle of Bruma. There are things that need to be done first..."

* * *

_Author Note: Yuppity, this took an AGE to write, I know. I could spend the next thousand words making excuses for my failing at writing this chapter in time, but it really boils down to three things: Writers' Block, Exams and the fact that I only got five reviews for a chapter I posted on my birthday - i.e. Demoralisation. I make no promises about how quickly 43 will be written, but I suspect it SHOULD be quicker than this, in theory. No, I didn't realise that Seanturco's birthsign was so convenient when I gave it to him (Chapter 21), but I praised the Nine when I found that out. I dreaded this chapter, dreaded how he would win, who would die... Then I realised that I'd already provided myself the answer. Idari and Turner's bit was MEANT to be longer, but it was already about 4.5k words when I got that far, so I left it as it was._

_And it's been almost a year since this story was started :P I'll try and update before its anniversary goes by, that's for sure. Watch this space_

_~ARTY~_


	43. Honour Thy Mother

_**nachosforever: **__Hey, don't feel bad. It's the thought that counts :) Moral support is fine; you might have noticed that I already have brutally efficient reviewers who notice my mistakes for me ;) Oh yeah, and I'm female, as you can't be bothered to stalk my profile :P Turner, Turner, Turner. You know what? I love Turner too. He's MY favourite character (It shows) and I love writing his perceptions of things. I love Idari for her unpredictability, and I love Seanturco and Rush for their quirky relationship. But Turner's still my fave :P __**~ARTY~**_

_Quote: __**... If it's English, write and write and write... Keep working on what makes you unique **__- Ian Beer, CBE_

* * *

_Chapter 43_

The stench of death was unmistakeable. It permeated through the walls and into the air outside, it slipped underneath the poorly sealed door, it soaked through the grass as it spilled out into the open, liberated at last and free to do its own bidding.

Ulfgar Fog-Eye, Nord lighthouse keeper, had given up the key to his death-ridden basement without so much as a fuss, begging the strange hooded woman to _please_ get rid of the robed man who lived there however she deemed fit. He had a feeling that he would not be bothered by curious shrouded figures for much longer.

Turner stood to one side as Idari Mortha approached, key in hand, gazing at the clinquant water in the dock as the light from the beacon illuminated it with its dull golden glow. He remembered this place well, before it stank of death. He remembered his first time arriving here, many years ago now, aboard the ship _The Serpents Wake_, marooned by the crew for being bad luck - though it was really just clumsiness, they hadn't _had_ to have taken him with them from Morrowind, it wasn't _necessary_. The ship was there again in the harbour, its anchor planted firmly in the silt of the seabed, and a curious purple glow emanating from the windows. In the mind of a certain Argonian, they deserved everything that was coming to them.

He was snapped from his stupor by a Dunmeri assassin jabbing him in the back with the blade of a shortsword to get his attention, luckily jumping away from it in shock instead of managing to impale himself upon it. She smirked at his reaction, explaining tersely that the door was opened, even though the key that that _stupid Nord_ had given her was wrong and she had had to pick the lock instead. She quickly added that killing said Nord would be a waste of time and arouse suspicions anyway, and therefore he could continue his idiotic existence until Sithis demanded his blood.

Now that the door was ajar, the smell of death was stronger, sickening Turner somewhat as he followed the seemingly apathetic woman inside. The sight that assaulted his eyes almost made him empty his stomach of its contents on the spot.

Many a person had died here, that much was obvious. Blood was splashed all around, floor to ceiling, unique spray patterns dancing across the walls from severed blood vessels. Corpses lay around, new and old. Most of the victims were completely naked, obscured their own blood from various wounds that covered every imaginable inch of their bodies, and some of them had obviously died over a long period of time, tortured to their dying breath.

One body was thrown on top of a cupboard, a female Breton who looked as though not one of her injuries were deep enough to kill her, her blonde hair matted together with her own blood that looked red enough to be fresh; another was an Imperial man bent over a barrel that looked as if it had once been full of ale, a pitchfork impaling his back and pinning him in one place as his torturer attacked him with more weapons from shears to axes, evident by the fact that he was missing several of his fingers and toes.

Behind the cupboard were strewn corpses of animals as well, a dog with a puncture wound in its neck, a rat that had been virtually sawn in half. Useless free limbs lay around a table in various states of decomposition, even, shockingly, mere inches from where a plate of bread and cheese lay waiting to be eaten. Turner fought against his immediate instinct to faint.

Idari picked her way between the bodies, careful not to tread in any more blood than was necessary, to a door at the other end, also splattered in the sanguine fluid of one of the numerous anonymous corpses. As she placed a gloved hand upon it, a ferocious snarl from the other side caused her to withdraw it quickly, a silver shortsword in her free hand a brief moment later. She threw a glance at Turner and, seeing that he was obviously struggling with the scene he saw before him, she continued in pushing the door open, a flash of fur alerting her to the presence of the dog milliseconds before it jumped on her, knocking her off balance.

It gnashed its teeth at her, half crazed with hunger and pain due to the obvious gash running the length of its body from the nape of its neck to the tip of its tail. The Dark Elf paralysed the creature with a simple spell and pushed it off of her to inspect it as she clambered back to her feet; it appeared as though it had not been fed for some time, a rabid look in its eyes. She justified its swift death at the end of her blade as a mercy killing, though in the corner of her eyes she saw the Argonian wince as she brought her sword across its throat to end its suffering.

"Better this death than one caused by starvation and mania," she muttered, mostly to herself but loudly enough for Turner to hear every word.

He nodded but said nothing, tiptoeing across the room to join her as she hopped over the newest addition to the collection of corpses into the next room. For a moment it seemed as though this room was far less gory than its predecessor as there was very little blood cast off here, a simple rug on the floor... And a shrine.

The Argonian staggered back against the opposite wall when he saw it. A mummified head sat atop a pedestal, surrounded by candles that looked as though they had only recently guttered. It was the face of a woman, though she had obviously died so long ago that it was difficult to tell what race she had been in life; her skin was grey and putrid, appearing as though it would slide from the bones beneath at a seconds notice, framed by lank black hair that clung to the rotting flesh. Whatever eyes had been within this face when it was alive were gone now, taken by decay to leave festering black crevasses in the otherwise terrifying face.

Idari, it seemed, had spotted something else and strolled towards the head as if seeing something as disgusting was an everyday occurrance. She stopped perhaps a foot from the shrine and stooped down as if to pick something up, though Turner wasn't sure exactly what she was collecting because he couldn't bring himself to turn his eyes from the ghastly visage before him.

"This is worse than I thought..." the Dark Elf muttered after a time, finally distracting the Argonian. She held a simple leather-bound book in her hand, flipping the thin pages over to inspect the words written upon them in blood from an unidentified source. However, upon reading one page she paused, doing an obvious double-take before glancing at Turner with a look of concern on her face. "You were on a ship before you were in Anvil, weren't you?"

The ex-beggar frowned deeply. "Yes. The Serpent's Wake."

Her eyes widened by a miniscule fraction before returning to their normal size. "They're dead," she told him, her voice completely level. "The Traitor killed them for laughing at him." She returned to her reading nonchalantly.

Turner froze, mildly baffled. "If I'm honest, I'm not really surprised," he admitted under his breath. "They had it coming..." Though his chosen words portrayed apathy, his tone was somewhat shaky as the reality hit him. "Praise be to Dibella..." he stated, his voice barely above a low murmur. "For getting me off that ship..." He stopped himself before he said anymore, because he was fully aware that Idari was listening in on his every word.

The Argonian was about to ask her what she had found when she snarled viciously, snapping the book in her hand closed violently as she jammed it into one of her many pockets. "He thinks he can call me a fool, huh?" she growled. "Thinks he can play me? _Me?_" Without warning her silver shortsword appeared in her hand and smashed down onto the table, travelling through the severed head with a stomach-churning squelch as it split roughly into several pieces. The blade sank deeply into the table beneath, spraying candlewax across the room as she attempted to yank it out of the wood, placing a foot on the table-leg to give herself more leverage. As soon as it was free she swiped it over the surface, sweeping everything onto the floor before blasting it with fire that shot from her palm.

"_See how your mother likes that_," she muttered, voice low and dangerous as she stood fuming, watching the flames lick over the devastation she had wreaked with a queer sense of achievement. Oh, the Traitor would suffer; she wanted more than anything to kill him with as much pain as possible, the assassin who killed assassins. He had made a fool of her, and he would die for it.

She whipped from the room without explanation, dancing past the rotten corpses with an evil glint in her eyes that Turner hadn't seen in almost a month. She was mad now, and she was truly viperous as the tendrils of fire began to lick up the wooden framework of the building, careering towards the ceiling. The Argonian followed her, unsure of what he ought to do really, powerless to do anything to stop her rage as more flames sprung from her fingertips, engulfing the mound of corpses and ownerless body parts as she tore on past. She did not care about the damage she caused to the lighthouse, didn't even stop to consider it, but Turner was not one to point this out to her, not today.

As soon as she was out in the open again she calmed down somewhat, although the look of death was still there in her blood red eyes as they focused on Anvil across the harbour, the salty spray whipping her in the face as the smell of burning flesh met her nostrils. Her companion staggered from the basement with his usual lack of coordination; one could tell by looking at him that he was wary of her, but not afraid, never afraid. He followed after her dutifully as she took off towards the city that had once been his home, the place that he wished to forget, unable to shake the image of that severed head from his already tortured mind.

Once they were within Anvil's wall she partook in a more leisurely pace, strolling along as if she were not baying for the blood of some unknown figure. This end of the town was more familiar to the ex-beggar than most; the buildings were smaller and packed together more tightly in a futile attempt to gain more space for people to live. The Count's Arms stood in the centre of a mass of houses, candlelight in the windows showing that it had as much patronage as always, people drawn by the publican Wilbur's taste in fine wines and by the promise of a warm fire and a good story or two from the town's resident bards. The memory sent an uncomfortable chill running down Turner's spine.

They were sauntering past the door happily when it opened suddenly to reveal a Bosmer woman in curiously mismatched armour who seemed to be muttering something about going to babysit some idiotic scholar in the back of beyond. The Argonian froze when he saw her; he didn't recognise her from his past, not specifically, but the chances of someone from Anvil seeing him was too much from him to bear. She was probably mid-twenties and perhaps an inch or so shorter than Idari, blonde hair pushed off her face by a strip of tan coloured cloth to reveal her pointed ears and grey eyes that currently portrayed something between amusement and annoyance. Her armour was something of a spectacle somewhere between light and heavy, starting with fur boots and ebony greaves and ending with a glass cuirass, leather bracers and a daedric shield that looked as though it were weighing her down on one side from its position slung across her back. A curved elven dagger was clearly visible on her hip, while a dwarven longsword hung on the other, almost dragging along the ground as she walked. She carried a steel bow and what appeared to be a quiver of silver arrows beneath her shield.

She appeared as though she were about to continue on past, until she caught sight of Turner staring at her in some vague state of terror. "Are you alright?" she asked slowly, throwing a sideways glance at Idari who was skulking a shadow somewhere nearby, her head cocking slightly to one side.

The Argonian blinked. "Yes," he spluttered finally. "Yes, yes I'm fine."

"You sure?" the Bosmer pressed, eyes slightly narrowed. "Because you look sort of lost to me... Or scared." The final comment was very definitely aimed at the Dunmer stood to one side and the mer in question couldn't help but smirk from beneath her hood.

"Lost? No, I know this place well," Turner assured her. "And... We were just leaving anyway." He gestured to the Dark Elf with one hand, attempting to get away without being forced into talking some more.

She let them walk a few steps before calling after them: "You wouldn't happen to know what happened to Enilroth, would you?" she asked. "Only the guards found him about a half hour ago unconscious. Mages are looking after him now..."

"I'm sorry," Idari replied coolly when she realised that her companion obviously had no idea how to reply. Luckily he had his back to her, or his guilty expression would have given them away in an instant. "We don't know to whom you are referring. However I hope he recovers quickly," she added, turning to shoot the Wood Elf a faked smile before continuing on their way. To Turner's relief she didn't persue the matter any further.

As soon as they were beyond the city walls the Hero of Kvatch stalked into the stables and removed their horses, blissfully neglecting to pay the Redguard ostler who looked glumly out of the window at her as she departed. She mounted Shadowmere smoothly and then waited impatiently for the Argonian to do the same, a sneer creeping across her face briefly. "I do wish those Fighters Guild idiots would stop thinking they're so much better than everybody else..." she muttered under her breath, glaring at the gates of Anvil as if they would catch fire on command.

"Where now?" Turner ventured tentatively as he slipped into the saddle for what felt like the umpteenth time that week.

"Applewatch, of course," the Dunmer explained, switching her gaze to the road ahead. "To show that Traitor that he is the biggest fool of all, to think that _I_ was a suitable puppet for his plans."

xxx

It was just after dark when an unlikely pair of partners left the Arboretum of the Imperial City, the whole walkway between the University and the main body of the city doused in a queer purple light thrown by the magical flames that flanked it. To the experienced mage the lanterns were nothing but a waste of time, effort and money - why have magic purple flames when regular flames were so much simpler? - but to the untrained eye they were so much more than that, a symbol of power and might and nothing short of striking, enough to inspire awe and fear into the very hearts of whomever walked over this stone pathway. Everyone _but_ the mages that lived and worked there and saw the blasted things on a regular basis.

Seanturco had noted for the entire duration of their return journey from Echo Cave that something about Rush was a little off now. He expected that she would be shaken after her run-in with Mannimarco, yes, but there seemed to be something deeper than that that was affecting her right now, and yet she did not seem at all willing to talk to him about it. Her breathing seemed more laboured than before, and this caused her to cough on a frequent basis, but not to cough up blood or even simply air, rather to cough up what looked like flesh that she seemed to casually drop to the ground in some feeble attempt to hide it. She probably thought the Altmer hadn't noticed that, or she would have been more defensive about it.

The only person who noticed the duo when they slipped through the large wooden gates to the University was a tall Redguard battlemage stuck on the late night shift of guarding them. It seemed highly likely that everyone here knew what they had left to attempt to achieve, because the look of complete and utter surprise on his face spoke volumes to the both of them. He appeared severely torn between staying at his post and fulfilling his duty, and running to summon Raminus Polus to inform him of the good news, albeit highly unanticipated good news. Perhaps the best news of all was that Hannibal Traven had not died in vain.

Ultimately the Redguard stayed in his place following a cynically stern look from Rush that looked as though it might be followed through with a lecture about duty if it were not obeyed. They continued onwards unhindered into the Wizard's Tower; at this late hour it was unlikely that anybody should be inside to greet them, however not impossible. When one had defeated the King of Worms very little seemed impossible anymore.

The Lobby seemed almost identical to the way it had been when they had left, right down to the exact locations of the precarious piles of books that looked ready to hurl themselves to the floor at any given moment. The only real difference was the small bronze plaque above the teleportation platform in memory of Arch-Mage Hannibal Traven and his gallant sacrifice. It seemed new and managed to sparkle in the dingy light as if it were enchanted to do so, even though it was not. The room was empty as expected, however, so any ceremony that went with their triumphant return felt very definitely lost to the unoccupied space.

"You should head on up," the Orc stated through the silence. Her voice sounded more rasping than it had before they had left, and before Mannimarco had worked his vicious spell upon her, and it seemed to be getting worse the longer after it had happened. She prayed to Malacath that her insides were not still rotting as she feared they probably were. "You are the new Arch-Mage after all..."

Seanturco winced at the title; while he was the one who had ultimately ended the treacherous reign of the tyrant known as Mannimarco, he had had a lot of help along the way - so why did he deserve this position? He wanted it about as much as he had wanted to be a vampire, and his desire to rid himself of that burden was just as strong. "I need to speak with Raminus Polus," he muttered to himself, striding towards the University courtyard. When he reached the door he stopped, hand poised on the door-handle, and turned to face his companion. "Raminus sleeps in the Mages' Quarters, doesn't he?" he asked her in a glum tone. She nodded awkwardly and he gestured for her to follow him. "I want you to hear this too. It's important."

"I hope you're not doin' anythin' stupid..." Rush murmured as he opened the door, her rotted innards churning painfully inside her for what felt like the millionth time.

The Altmer merely smirked slyly. "I'm afraid that rather depends on your definition of stupid."

Outside the reaction to their presence was one of shock. Apprentices hurrying to finish their research before they fell asleep saw them and their mouths fell open in surprise; conversations tailed off mid-sentence as people leapt aside, unsure of whether to speak to the visions they saw or simply continue on with their every day lives. Rush rolled her eyes at them.

They descended the stairs opposite the Praxographical Centre, drawing yet more strange looks from the people they passed. One Apprentice, scurrying past with an armful of what looked like books, managed to gasp in shock and drop everything she was carrying. Seanturco considered stopping to help the poor girl pick everything back up, but finally settled on the fact that that might push her over the edge and cause her to have some kind of heart attack.

The Mages' Quarters were a place that the newest Arch-Mage had only stayed on a handful of occasions. Being sent on tasks that required long journeys, and his time spent wallowing in vampirism had led him to spend very little time in the University at all, as it happened. In fact, he could count on his fingers exactly how many days he had spent here in his lifetime, and most of those had been before the unfortunate episode that had led to his contracting Porphyric Haemophilia.

He stalked upstairs, determined to find one Raminus Polus and say his piece before all was too late, or so he assumed it soon would be. Rush attempted to follow until a terrible cough was drawn from her lungs, very nearly causing her to topple back down again, pain erupting through her chest. Seanturco returned to her instantly, helping her to the base of the stairs where a concerned Bothiel appeared to have emerged from her room, her hair loose as if she had been sleeping.

"Today we are blessed by your return, Arch-Mage," the Bosmer stated, crossing to where the Orc was still coughing, doubled over in pain. The crest sewn onto her robes showed that she had been promoted to Master-Wizard since they had departed for Echo Cave, probably so that she could take the place of Caranya or Irlav Jarol on the Council. "Tell me, what is wrong with your escort? For one thing, this cough of hers does not sound healthy."

Rush shook her head firmly as yet another piece of necrotic lung tissue emerged in her hand from her most recent cough. She was dying, she could see that, but she was determined not to die like this. As the coughing fit subsided she straightened up, crushing the dead cells with her gauntleted fist before climbing back to her feet. "There is nothin' you can do to stop this," she muttered to Bothiel when she saw that the master of the Orrery was just about prepared to run for someone with medical knowledge. "Mannimarco's power is strong, and will be irreversible. Do not waste your magicka."

Seanturco blinked rapidly as the Orc took to the stairs again, stomping up them quickly and disappearing through the door above, which she somehow managed to slam into the wall by pushing it open with a little too much force. He should have seen what was happening to her. He should have killed the King of Worms sooner.

"She puts on a brave face in the anticipation of her death," Bothiel was murmuring quietly somewhere beside him. "Such valour is unusual these days. You are lucky to have received such a gallant escort."

_Lucky?_ The Altmer cringed at that word. He had spent so very, very long trying to get rid of her, to get a more socially acceptable battlemage to accompany him everywhere, and now she was dying. And all because of him. He didn't imagine it would be a pleasant death, to slowly feel one's insides rotting away to a decayed pulp. Would she be able to eat now? He somehow doubted it. How much longer would she survive? He dreaded to think, he hesitated to guess. Would she still accompany him to the Battle of Bruma? Anything less on her part would be a travesty; it was not like her to let rotted innards stop her from fulfilling her duty until the bitter end.

So lost in his thoughts was he that he barely acknowledged the presence of a rather stunned and somewhat elated Raminus Polus until the man in question was directly in front of him, grin fixed on his face. "Arch-Mage!" he declared happily. Seanturco winced at the title again, but more visibly this time around. "You have returned! Mannimarco is defeated? I can scarcely believe that it's true!" Rush had rematerialised at the base of the stairs and was leaning on a wall, probably to support herself if not to remain out of the picture. Polus continued to elate: "The King of Worms is no more! This is truly a joyous day!" This time his tone took a more serious note. "I found Traven's note..." he explained gravely, a look of sorrow in his blue eyes. "I know what he had to sacrifice in order for our victory to be won. He will be mourned, in time, but now is a time for jubilation at the return of our triumphant Arch-Mage!"

"No." The High Elf had spoken without truly thinking through his argument behind his objections to the Master-Wizard's speech. In fact, he now seemed to have garnered the attention of more than just Raminus Polus, as Bothiel could be seen in the corner of his eye moving in her doorway, and he was fairly certain he could sense the presence of somebody at the entrance to the basement. "No," he repeated, though this time with less force. "My stay here will be a short one. Hannibal Traven himself expressed that I would be leading the battlemages into the Battle of Bruma, and I intend to follow through with his wishes. We will leave first thing in the morning."

"But Arch-Mage, the battlefield is hardly the place for the head of our-" The Imperial found himself silenced by a single gesture from his only superior in the guild.

"I am aware of the implications of my decisions," Seanturco stated slowly, and he couldn't help but notice a somewhat proud smirk appearing on Rush's face as he asserted his authority. "However, I have some acts that I would like to be put in place with my new position." Raminus nodded willingly as though a dog complying with its master's wishes. The thought of it made the Altmer's insides churn. "Firstly, I would like to see Magician Rush gra-Yazgash promoted to Master-Wizard; I know it is not customary for one to rise the ranks so quickly, however I truly consider her worthy, and an equal to myself. If I could give her the rank of Arch-Mage, I truly would, however I feel she would be as uncomfortable in the position as I find myself to be."

"Very well, Arch-Mage," his steward agreed with a nod. The Orc behind him seemed mildly surprised with his decision, but suitably amused at the same time, and he could understand her amusement perfectly. It was not as though she had very long to enjoy the benefits of her new rank. And what would Thalfin have to say about that? "Is there anything else?"

"Yes," the Arch-Mage continued. "There is." He took a moment to pause and consider the wording of his next command, as it was considerably more important. "I also wish the promotion of one Raminus Polus to the position of Arch-Mage."

The Imperial in question spluttered in bewilderment. "You know that it is not possible for two guildmasters to preside of the over our establishment," he remonstrated, looking around for support from somewhere. Seanturco was fairly certain he had heard whoever was listening in on this conversation gasp as well; was it not the done thing? To be perfectly and abruptly honest, he truly couldn't care less.

"That is why I demote myself to Master-Wizard," the High-Elf explained, his face devoid of all emotions. Rush nodded in appreciation of his audacity. "I never wished to take Hannibal Traven's position in the guild, and I feel uncomfortable in a rank of such power. Instead, I grant power to Traven's most trusted and most loyal advisor, who I believe should have received the position rather than myself. Defeating an age old foe does not make one qualified, or even worthy, to run a guild. I do not think myself either. These changes shall be put into place immediately, and at dawn battlemages shall be selected to accompany myself and Master-Wizard gra-Yazgash to Bruma. I leave my guild in your capable hands, Arch-Mage Polus."

xxx

Dunmeri assassin Idari Mortha was determined that they would reach Applewatch before daybreak. She knew Shadowmere would make it if she truly let the horse do his worst, however she was really quite concerned about the state of Turner's horse Snowdrop. The black horse was hardly like the demon that she rode in that it was completely mortal - she hadn't yet decided whether Shadowmere actually _could_ die, though she presumed that the chances of him doing so were extremely low - and she could see the effects of fatigue slowing her down already.

Out of desperation she resolved to use magic on the thing, alleviating its exhaustion and increasing its speed with the only spell she could think of. She'd never really focused much of coming to the aid of others with her magic, thus her Restoration skills were somewhat lacking unless they came to healing herself, however the spell seemed to work wonders, allowing the rejuvenated mare to adopt a slightly faster pace.

The graves outside of the farmhouse known as Applewatch were not as fresh as they might have been. Five of them, all in a row, the earth covering the family frozen solid by the cold Jerall breeze, a layer of snow dusting them. The epitaphs upon the headstones were hastily carved, probably by a Legion soldier as they brought the family back together, one by one; there was no adornment of the graves save for the sword of Caelia Draconis resting upon the site of her burial, an eternal tribute to a fine young soldier. Idari Mortha was not interested in such trivialities.

She sprung from Shadowmere at a moment's notice, her red eyes drawn to the voids in the snow that pertained to footprints that all led inwards. There were more than one set, though it was hard to ascertain as to the exact number. Beckoning Turner to her she stepped forward cautiously as the Argonian tumbled from his mount to end up kneeling in the freezing snow.

"We are too late," she spoke in a low voice so that whoever may be inside the house would not be able to hear her over the gusting winds that tore through the mountains like a pack of ravenous wolves. "Lucien Lachance will be dead, almost certainly." She did not mind the death of one Lucien Lachance, she had never much cared for the man, however the weight of the Traitor's diary in her pocket reminded her that now the fiendish Traitor had won himself one small victory in the death of the man who had started this whole episode. Lachance deserved his death, in Idari's mind, in exchange for his part in the descent of the Dark Brotherhood - and with it, The Black Hand - into complete and utter chaos. "As of now, I have no idea what to expect. But expect blood and gore; they will not have killed him cleanly."

Throwing the wooden door into the building open, the Dunmer led the way inside, mildly shocked that the glorious Black Hand had not thought to lock the door. Or perhaps it was that they wished Lachance's apparent betrayal to be found.

The corpse of their Speaker drew their attention far more than the four robed figures who stood around it, their robes splattered with the blood of a semi-innocent man, their fingers stained red, their blades dripping the sanguine fluid onto the dusty floor. He had been strung from the ceiling by his ankles, the cord still in place now, black as the Void; he had been stripped of his robes which had then been thrown upon the floor in tatters, splashed with their owner's blood. If they did not know the body before them belonged to Lucien Lachance, they would not have been able to recognise it; the man had been castrated, stripped of most of his skin, beaten to a bloody pulp. Whatever teeth had remained in his mouth from his beating had been removed by force, chunks of flesh still attached to them as they were strewn across the floor. His torso was ripped open, several of his internal organs having tumbled to the ground below, his hands bound behind his back though many of the bones in his arms had clearly been broken. It had not been a quick death, but rather slow and painful, drawn out over a period of anything from hours to days. Had Lachance deserved _that_?

The robed strangers looked strangely satisified for having desecrated the body in such a foul manner. They turned to face the pair one by one, smirking at their reactions, the Dunmer female strangely unaffected by the sight while the Argonian appeared as though he would faint in a second.

The High Elf, the only female of the quartet, addressed them happily. "You have arrived at last!" she proclaimed. Blood stained most of her body, including her face, though the concentration around her mouth appeared to allude to something far more sinister than just murder. "The Traitor, Lucien Lachance, has been executed! The Brotherhood is no longer threatened and you no longer serve as his puppet."

"Fools," Idari muttered under her breath, looking from figure to figure. The female was the only one she could rule out as the Traitor, because they had found a dead drop baying for _her_ blood in the barrel in Anvil. She looked at the others, settling on either the Imperial or the Breton judging by the severed head they had found, though the Dark Elf was not clear of her suspicions as yet.

"When we confronted Lachance he tried to declare his innocence, tried to defend himself. Even to death he protested his fiendish and vulgar lies!" the Altmer continued, the sound of her voice ringing in the Silencer's ears as she attempted to further her deductions about the true Traitor. "Today we have proven that even weakened as we are, the Black Hand is no less than a force to be reckoned with!" She seemed oddly triumphant about their apparent victory, though there was no way that the supposed Traitor could have fought all four of them off simultaneously. He had been a doomed man from the off. "My name is Arquen, and I am a Speaker of the Black Hand," she introduced herself at last. Idari had already ascertained her name from the contract she had seen, though now her suspicions were confirmed. "Now we may begin afresh. I bestow upon you the title of Speaker and invite you to join us in the Black Hand; you killed the Listener and his successor, however, so we must visit the home of our Night Mother, awaken her from her eternal slumber and seek her guidance. We must not tarry any longer."

"And what of him?" Idari asked, jerking a thumb over her shoulder to point at Turner, who still looked poised to throw up at any moment.

The other Dunmer smirked. "Every Speaker must have a Silencer," he pointed out with a grin. What could be seen of his dark hair was dripping with blood, leaving intricate patterns across his face every time he moved. "Allow me to introduce myself," he stated, one gloved hand pointing to his chest as he did so. "Banus Alor, Speaker." Then he gestured to the men behind him. "And these are Speakers Belisarius Arius and Mathieu Bellamont." The respective man nodded in acknowledgement of his own name as the mer spoke. "Now we must away to Bravil. Our great Mother may only be summoned after being embraced by darkness. A new Listener must be selected with the utmost haste, and then we may work to restore our glorious Brotherhood. Come now, my Brothers."

The four left at their own bidding, heading away to the shrine. Really, Bravil had been the only place to hold the tomb of their Night Mother, the statue of the Lucky Old Lady in all her sinister finery presenting an ample hiding place for such a secretive organisation.

After they had gone, Idari Mortha approached the body of Lucien Lachance by just a step, careful not to tread in his blood any more than was necessary. "So much for honour..." she muttered darkly, as if she had expected there to be honour amongst a guild of assassins, as it were. Were they a guild? Or just a dark family? All she knew for now was that they were not free yet.

"Shouldn't we head to Bravil then?" Turner asked her, apparently now recovered from the sight of the gruesome murder scene, at least enough to form a coherent sentence.

The Dunmer whipped around the face him; he recognised the dangerous glint in her eye and was strangely relieved that she'd found it again despite the fact that he was stuck alone in a secluded location with her. "You don't need to be there this time," she told him, a curious smirk on her face. "There will be blood before our world sees dawn again. The Traitor will die."

Was that... _concern_ he heard in Idari's words as she spoke them? Was she worried about his aversion to the blood being spilt? No. No, Turner doubted that her telling him to stay behind had anything to do with him whatsoever; she wished her glorious revenge and she did not wish to watch the back of someone else in the process. She practically said as much as she breezed past him to mount Shadowmere who waited patiently outside, red eyes blazing with fury as though he knew the identity of the Traitor but could not tell.

Without thinking, the Argonian found himself grabbing Snowdrop's reins and hauling himself onto her back, much to his own shock as well as the Dunmer's. "I want to be there," he said, no margin for error in his voice. "I want to watch you end the Traitor's miserable life." Neither of them could believe what he was saying, but still he continued. "I need to see it. I need to know. There needs to be... closure. For Cheydinhal." It was then that his reasons slotted firmly into place for Idari; though it was she that had murdered probably the only family he had ever known, it was the Traitor's doing and it was the Traitor who would pay with his life. The sweetest form of retribution there was.

They rode hard as they headed southwards, leaving the Jerall Mountains behind; Snowdrop was sustained largely by Idari's magic, the poor horse was close the exhaustion as it was but still they pushed her hard. Turner imaged he would have to buy a new horse at some point, if he were to live long enough with a major battle looming over his head. They met the Orange Road and headed east, riding as if they would not see tomorrow while the Great Forest closed in around them, its leaves enveloping them once it had them in its snares. At the Silver Road their attentions returned to the south, the sun now high in the sky as it drew towards mid-morning. The Red Ring Road followed, allowing them to skirt around the Imperial City as the sun reached its peak around midday and drawing into the afternoon. As the sun descended they hit the Green Road to follow its snaking path through yet more of The Great Forest. They reached Bravil as the sun began to sink slowly behind the Colovian Highlands, the heat of the day made it so that they could smell the fetid town some distance before they could see it.

It was a quick journey by any consideration, to take just a day to transverse almost half the province, though Idari was sure that the other Speakers would have their own methods of arriving swiftly. Surely Shadowmere was not one of a kind when it was placed in terms of speed, and there was always the option of using magicka as with Snowdrop.

It was strange to think that they had only been here a few days previously, and that their deadline for returning to Cloud Ruler Temple was growing dangerously close. Nothing was significantly different about the town since their last visit, save for the removal of the body of the Bosmer who had been Listener of the Dark Brotherhood; it was certainly an achievement to have managed to kill the effective guildmaster of such an infamous organisation, however the only thing Idari felt when she considered the whole episode was anger. Anger and pain. Her shoulder still ached uncomfortably; understandable, since her method of removing the arrow had been foolish at best and had probably caused about as much damage as the projectile itself had done. But she was too proud to ever admit that she had been wrong.

As soon as the sun was gone darkness enveloped them almost instantly, covering them in a black shroud that their armour could only accentuate to cause them to become little more than the shadows they skulked in. Shadows of flesh and blood.

The pair of living shadows watched the statue of the Lucky Old Lady closely once more, unaware of exactly what it was that they were waiting for. Without warning, the figure of Arquen appeared in front of them wielding a torch; while the Argonian shadow very nearly jumped out of his skin with shock, the Dunmer somehow maintained a rather stoic persona, glaring at the High Elf as if willing her to say something. A few moments later the single point of torchlight was joined by three more as the other Speakers came into view.

"The locals here have no idea just how lucky they are," the Altmer explained, glancing at the statue behind her. "This stone effigy marks to entrance to the unholy crypt - the tomb of our Night Mother herself!" She seemed utterly thrilled by this prospect, fraught with devotion and rippling with excitement. "In a few moments will will recite the archaic incantation so that we may enter into Her resting place and seek audience with the Unholy Matron herself. Let us see what the future holds, shall we?"

She abandoned the pair at that moment, joining her comrades in the disjointed circle about the statue, more of a square than anything else. Idari glared at the other three men in the shape, still desperately attempting to ascertain just which one was considered the Traitor, which one was intent upon destroying the Night Mother entirely and with her the whole Dark Brotherhood.

At a nod from the Altmer, the four began to intone: "_Unholy Matron, we beseech thee! Reveal thyself, most magnificent Night Mother, so that we may seek thy guidance_." They kept their voices low and monotonous, so as not to garner unwanted attention, the guards presumably bribed or silenced more permanently.

The statue in front of them shudder, moving fluidly as though dancing, the female effigy twisting to one side to reveal a trapdoor beneath her plinth. The air seemed to crackle with even more excitement as the entrance was beheld by the four Speakers, though one was obviously excited for reasons far beyond those of utter devotion to one's deity. The Imperial man, presumably the eldest of the troupe, descended into the crypt first, followed by the Dark Elf and the Breton before finally Arquen accompanied them, leaving Idari and Turner alone on the surface.

"Let's end this," the Argonian whispered, approaching the statue and clambering through the trapdoor without a further word.

"Yes, let's," Idari muttered as she followed the five people who had gone before her into what was effectively an unknown series of events. She knew one thing in all certainty however: the Traitor would not be living much longer.

The crypt itself was dark and smelt somewhat musty and damp, water dripping from the stalagtites that hung down from the ceiling here, there and everywhere. Immediately the Dark Elf took note of the coffins that seemed to fill the room, five large, stone coffins to be precise, surrounded by books or alchemical ingredients, overturned braziers marking the point where the rough floor turned into smooth stone steps. It would have overall appeared a natural cave, were it not for the convenient stone pillars which seemed to be holding up the roof, no doubt supporting te weight of Bravil as well. At the far end she could make out an altar with a skeletal corpse lain upon it, five smaller, childlike corpses on the ground nearby as if reaching for their mother. It was unclear whether the corpses were authentic or just symbolic of the Night Mother and the five children that Sithis had fathered with her to become the Black Hand many years before.

The Night Mother herself sat upon what looked like a throne carved from a boulder, an ethereal form that struck one as slightly more than some average graveyard-bound being. In life she seemed to have been a Dunmer judging by the structure of her ghostly form, and her dress was reminiscent of that of the upper classes, despite now being translucent. She did not appear pleased at the disturbance.

"What is the meaning of this desecration?" the supernatural figure demanded when she saw that all her Children were assembled. She looked each of them in the eye, clearly glancing through into their very souls; though she sounded angry she was outwardly calm and composed. "Why have you disturbed me from my slumber?" She got to her feet, continuing to look from figure to figure as if she knew them all, her eyes lingering on Idari - who stood little more than two paces back from the rest of the group - for a brief millisecond longer than the others.

Arquen stepped forward, seperating herself from the group. "Dearest Night Mother," she proclaimed, her head bowed as if in reverance to the being. "We, the Black Hand, seek your guidance in our time of greatest need."

The Unholy Matron nodded thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. I have been expecting you," she told them, addressing the group as she would infants. "Your Listener now kneels before the Dread Father along with his successor. There is a Traitor in your midst."

"But no longer!" the High Elf grinned, obviously thrilled by the news she was presenting to her deity. "The Traitor is dead, dearest Night Mother." If one could lick the boots of a ghost, Idari suspected that Arquen might somewhen around now. "Anoint one of us the Listener with your most unholy of blessings so that we may restore our order to its former glory!"

The spectre frowned deeply. "Foolish little girl," she scolded, causing the female Speaker to recoil as if she had been slapped in the face, right back into the group behind her. "Lucien Lachance served Sithis with every fibre of his being until his very dying breath. The Black Hand remains tainted with betrayal and disloyalty. Restoration is impossible."

A silence hung over the crypt for a few agonising seconds, each member of the group subconsciously edging away from the others. At last movement occured as the Breton man that Banus had introduced as Mathieu Bellamont drew his dagger before taking hold of the Imperial by the neck and slitting his throat with expert efficiency, the blood around the wound freezing on contact with the obviously enchanted blade. "Enough of this!" he cried, impassioned for no apparent reason, still supporting Belisarius' body. "You will all suffer for the pain you have caused me. I will destroy your Night Mother and the Dark Brotherhood will fall!" He then threw the Imperial Speaker's corpse to the ground, allowing the blood to pool as the frozen coagulation was dislodged on impact with the cold stone, the man emitting strangled noises as he struggled to breathe through his severed trachea and exsanguination took hold of him.

Tearing the Imperial's iron longsword from its scabbard to wield it against Banus Alor, who drew his own identical weapon an instant later. Sensing a pointless fight, the Breton turned and thrust the blade through the midsection of an onlooking Argonian as an afterthought, twisting it free in a single merciless movement before using it to slash at the Night , Banus and Arquen circling him with as much stealth as they could muster.

Turner choked in pain as he felt the weapon pass through his body and exit through his back just below his ribcage, barely avoiding severing his spinal cord; he felt the metal strike bone as Mathieu wrenched it from his skin and his own blood pooling in his lungs that he could do little more than cough up onto the earth beneath his feet as he sunk to his knees and collapsed. He had experienced pain before, several times, but never like this, and never as focused in one location as it was currently. The world went black seconds later.

Idari watched in anger as the Breton revealed himself as the Traitor, the man responsible for all the betrayal that had ensnared the Brotherhood for many years. Her own silver shortsword was already drawn by the time Belisarius hit the floor and she prepared herself for action, Arquen's shouts to protect the Night Mother falling on completely deaf ears as she weighed up the situation. Until Turner went down.

Subconsciously she had known that if the Argonian accompanied her here something would befall him. His lust for revenge was strong, yes, but he was something of a scapegoat for those intending to cause harm. That, and his reactions were so blissfully slow that he almost always ended up injured. The sword that travelled through his abdomen was proof enough of this theory.

She was unsure of what to do now. Her lust for revenge burned deep within her, compelling her to end Bellamont's pitiful life for calling her a fool, for insulting her honour. But she couldn't see Turner die.

For a moment, her mind was drawn back to the events in the Bruma Oblivion gate, the death of the soldier that she had tried her utmost to save. His wounds were so similar to the ex-beggar's that she almost screamed in anger about her own weaknesses in Restoration. She would not let another man die due to her own ineptitude.

Her lust for revenge won the initial battle for her attention however, leaping at the Breton through the gap left when his enchanted dagger left a deep, crippling gash in Arquen's sword arm, causing her to drop the blade that she had been holding and clutch at it in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. The pair of Speakers had landed a few blows on the Traitor, for his hood had flown backwards to reveal wispy grey hair despite his age that was stained with blood from a slash that had landed across his eye and continued almost to his ear, issuing sanguine fluid across most of his face.

It was obvious that he was the more skilled assassin, perhaps from years of senseless torture in his lair in Anvil that he had inflicted upon countless people who had apparently disappeared without a trace forever now. His only weakness was the fact that the two blades he was wielding were almost complete opposites of one another: one a short enchanted dagger while the other was a long, unenchanted, cumbersome iron sword. He was more skilled with his own weapon, but he had greater reach with Belisarius', which gave him little or no edge against Banus Alor who wielded an almost identical sword. Unable to get close enough to land a final blow upon the Dunmer, the pair seemed to tangle incessantly as Mathieu tried to manipulate the fight in the direction of the Night Mother in a feeble attempt to kill her, despite her being already dead.

Idari, spurred on by rage, pounced at the man, missing by less than an inch as he blocked her blow with the iron sword at the very last minute. She could almost imagine Turner dying in the background as she continued to scuffle with him before Banus saw fit to aid her, a rip across the front of his robes revealing a cut on his blue-skinned chest that looked painful but not life threatening. She could hear Arquen wincing in pain as the Altmer in question attempted to find some way to fix her wounded arm before she bled out and died. She almost tripped over the now lifeless form of Belisarius Arius as she ducked backwards to avoid one of Bellamont's blows. So much death...

She wasn't thinking as she yelled the Ayleid incantation and lightning bolts leapt from her palm, coursing through the Breton's body as he tried to fight its jolts, dropping both his weapons. She intensified the spell to make him writhe in pain, enough to make Banus wisely take a step backwards to avoid any of the electricity jumping to him. Dropping Mathieu to the ground, she crossed to Turner's side in an instant, listening out for the distinctive sound of a sword entering a body which followed perhaps thirty seconds after the other Dunmer had deemed it safe enough to approach the still-crackling corpse.

Idari rolled the Argonian over to inspect the entry wound, even though it appeared to have gone all the way through. It was a relatively safe place to be stabbed, because very few of the major internal organs lay below the ribcage, however it had evidently caused some massive haemorrhaging somewhere within his body judging by the amount of blood that was pooling around him eerily, almost mingling with that belonging to the dead Speaker Belisarius Arius. How this failure managed to survive everything life threw at him she had to wonder. He must honestly be the luckiest person alive - for now.

She could feel the Night Mother's gaze upon her back as she tried desperately to figure out some spell she knew that was powerful enough to sufffice. She didn't expect the _assassins_ to be proficient in healing anybody other than themselves, but she blamed them for their idiocy as much as she blamed herself.

"I have been following your progress through the Dark Brotherhood carefully, young one," the ancient woman said to her as she cast her first spell in desperation. Her magicka supply was already feeling mildly depleted; perhaps she had used a little too much on Bellamont, even though he hadn't suffered like she had intended, or perhaps it was her fault for expending such a vast amount to maintain a lowly horse.

Idari fixed the ghost in a cold stare. "I don't care," she growled, her attention returning to Turner. Behind her, she heard Arquen and Banus Alor gasp at her tenacity to insult what was their deity.

The Unholy Matron continued to speak, long-dead lips curving upwards into a brief smile. "The way you killed the old man Baenlin, the death of Adamus Phillida... How you stalked and murdered every member of the Draconis family..."

"I know what I did," the Dunmer snapped, weaving another spell. The Argonian was the only person she would ever consider calling a friend; she was not prepared to let him die. "I know who I have killed. I know who I have sent to Sithis in your name. I do not _need_ reminding."

"Your Purification of the sanctuary in Cheydinhal..." the figure went on, showing no sign of being perturbed by the now irate assassin's words. "You, a mere underling, even managed to singlehandedly murder more than half of my Black Hand!"

"I was _not_ singlehanded," Idari clarified, a vicious snarl clawing at the edges of her tone. "You _know_ I was not singlehanded. You knew _all along_ who the Traitor was, you _know_ what I have been through, you _know_ I will not let him die. For Sithis' sake, help me!"

The Night Mother chuckled. "It is not the job of my Dark Children to save lives, young one," she pointed out, her gaze never shifting from the Dark Elf as she worked her magic carefully. "But you carried out your orders to the letter, in the name of the Black Hand! It is true what you have said; I knew of Mathieu Bellamont's intentions since he was a boy and watched his progress as he rose through the ranks as you did. I could have informed my Listener in a second, but I did not. Ungolim was weak." She spoke the final sentence with such an edge of disgust in her voice that Arquen visibly flinched despite not being the one to whom the woman's speech was directed. It was almost as if the Night Mother were ignoring the other two Speakers as they sought to heal their own wounds. "Yes, I allowed Mathieu Bellamont to wreak havoc through my Brotherhood, just as I intended you to be the one to intercept him. I allowed him to overhear your conversation with Lucien Lachance in Bravil and to warn his unsuspecting Brothers, and I allowed Lucien Lachance to fall before Sithis as his fate always intended. Your fates are all interwoven in intricate patterns."

"What does Lucien's death have to do with anything?" Idari growled, sending another batch of magicka into the Argonian's torso as she felt her own supply of it dwindling. She didn't expect the other two to be proficient in magic at all. "What does it matter if our fates are interwoven?"

"_You_ were meant to kill the Traitor, just as you are meant to be named Listener of the Dark Brotherhood," the ghost insisted. "You were marked by Sithis from the moment you emerged from your mother's womb."

The Dark Elf jumped to her feet at that comment, glaring at the Night Mother savagely. "I reject your foolish title," she snapped, garnering full gasps from the other two Speakers. "I will _not_ be the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. I refuse."

Banus and Arquen exchanged horror-stricken glances from their position behind the ghost. The Altmer had torn a strip from Belisarius' robe to roughly bandage her arm so that she was no longer bleeding, whereas the Dunmer looked as though he were forced to simply deal with his wounds, taking no action to treat them.

The Night Mother, however, merely smiled wryly, an evil glint in her undead eyes. "Then the Argonian will die," she spoke calmly, delivering her ultimatum flatly with no room for ambiguity in her words. She held the power to either save him or kill him, but the decision lay with Idari.

The Dark Elf in question took a step backwards as she comprehended the spectre's words, almost stepping on her comrade's leg as she did so. She scowled, and in desperation sent the last of her magicka through his body, the strange, alien feeling of having no power whatsoever overtaking her suddenly as the last drop flowed from her extended fingertips. The wound to his stomach was considerably reduced in severity now, but it was still bleeding despite the magic and Idari quickly reached the conclusion that he had lost so much blood that he would slip away soon anyway - if he hadn't already. She stooped down and pressed her gloved fingers to his neck in order to feel for a pulse that came back dangerously weak.

Her hands clenched into fists as she straightened back up, cursing her luck. She didn't _want_ Turner to die, but she wasn't about to give into the Night Mother's blackmail because her pride simply wouldn't let her.

"Why not one of them for Listener?" she suggested, pointing angrilly at Arquen and Banus. "For one thing they are far more loyal, and I have other things to-"

The Unholy Matron cut her off. "They were not marked by Sithis as you were, child. It is a simple exchange: acceptance for the life of a friend."

"He's not a friend."

The ghost arched an ethereal eyebrow. "Then perhaps you would explain your desire to save him, young one. For if he were not a friend, a heart as blackened as yours would not care about one as feeble as him."

Idari clenched her teeth, her muscles clenched in fury. If only she had had more magicka... If only she weren't so weak... Finally, however, she threw a sideways glance at Turner and her expression set. "How can I know that you will save him if I agree?" she demanded, her voice mildly threatening.

"You do not," the Night Mother smirked. "However be assured that if you do not agree, he will die in a little over a minute's time."

The Dunmer swore violently, clenching her fists more tightly. If she hadn't been wearing black gloves, her knuckles would have turned white even through her blue-tinted skin. Was she truly prepared to give up her liberty in exchange for the life of one simple Argonian that she had met by accident so many months ago? _No_, her mind retorted when the question flitted through her head. _Don't allow her to blackmail you. The Argonian is nothing_. But then something deep within her whispered, so quietly that she barely heard it: _But this Argonian saved Reron..._

"Very well," she muttered, obviously against the saner half of her mind's point of view. "On the condition that you save him."

The ancient ghost simply smiled. "When you next wake, you shall be home," she told Idari cryptically before returning to her throne and settling herself comfortably.

Seconds later the three conscious mortals in the crypt experienced their worlds collapsing into darkness, and in an ancient hidden cave deep beneath the squalid town of Bravil an age-old deity laughed.

* * *

_Author Note: First off, this chapter is dedicated to **David the Scotish Werewolf** and **Idledreamcatcher**, for either being an amazingly fast reader and awesome reviewer, or for just simply being back - I really did miss her, actually._

_BiA is one year old on June 12th :P_

_Other than that... Reviews make me happy, please leave one :)_


	44. Jerall

_**nachosforever: **But but but but but but but... I DO LIKE HIM! XD Who said I was killing Turner, eh? :P Hmm... A surprisingly large number of people like Rush... Shame I introduced her so late and sentenced her to die so early... Yes, both your reviews were signed, but the second one is equally appreciated! Oh? I live in the UK do I? My goodness, you must be psychic! *claps hand over mouth in shock* XD Now, stop jumping to conclusions about who I am and am not killing :P All in good time, all in good time... Thanks for your reviews ~ARTY~_

_Quote: **Grammar is important: Capitalization is the difference between helping your Uncle Jack off a horse & helping your uncle jack off a horse**_

_**Did you know that 'race car' spells 'race car' backwards? **- Martin Brundle – The Canadian Grand Prix_

* * *

_Chapter 44_

To awake to find oneself pressed against a cold stone floor was not a position Idari Mortha wished to find herself in right now. _Home_, the Night Mother had said, was the place she would find herself when she woke again. She wasn't even sure if she had a home anymore, but she knew that _her_ home did not have a stone floor.

Her eyes flung open as soon as she comprehended the sensation, springing to her feet suddenly. She was in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, a fact that she quickly ascertained by the faded trace of a blood stain beneath a splintered wooden door that brought back clear memories of the deaths of her Dark Brothers and Sisters at her own hands. Three other forms lay bundled on the floor, each one garbed in black and each one still officially out cold.

Idari ran to the Argonian quickly, almost colliding with the Dark Guardian as it continued to lumber around even long after the sanctuary had been abandoned. If it had had any remnents of brain matter left, it would have given her a strange look at that precise moment, but as it happened it merely continued on walking as though four figures had not materialised on its floor from nothing perhaps a half hour previously, obstructing its carefully planned out route to some large margin of error.

She checked his pulse instinctively, shocked to find that the Night Mother had indeed kept him alive at least this long. She knew that pledging herself to the Unholy Matron was possibly the only way to have a chance of saving him, however she had held very little hope that the ghost would actually follow up on her end of the deal. What was the life of one lowly Argonian to one who was almost deemed a god?

The wound to his stomach was almost completely healed, however, and the pulse was there even though it was tragically weak. There were healers on the surface up in Cheydinhal but she knew for a fact that she would not be able to get Turner as far as the surface, effectively dooming herself to have to fix him up somewhat down here.

A groan from behind her alerted Idari to the fact that one of the two Speakers was awake. Turning she immediately noticed Arquen struggling to sit up. Her black hood had fallen off her face to reveal brown hair pulled into a ponytail, and an ominous purple bruise appearing on her face made it seem as though she had collided with the floor with rather more force than she ought to have done when the Night Mother had tweaked out her consciousness.

"Most Honoured Listener!" she proclaimed with a mildly shocked but undeniably happy tone. The Dark Elf merely hissed in reply. "We can now set about restoring the Brotherhood..."

"Do you think I care?" Idari snapped, her voice both questioning and threatening for just a moment as if she wished an answer but suggested strongly that the Altmer choose her next words very carefully. "You can restore your own Nine-foresaken Brotherhood."

Arquen recoiled by just a fraction before her face set. "As you wish, Honoured Listener." As she spoke her voice took a low, daring tone, and for the first time since Idari had first set eyes upon the woman she finally looked like exactly what she was: a skilled assassin. She inclined her head slightly in a subdued symbol of respect, her brown eyes finding the stone floor for a tiny fraction of a second before she walked off in the direction of the Living Quarters, leaving the Dunmer with only Turner and the still unconscious form of Banus Alor.

The Dark Elf found herself checking for a pulse again as if she were becoming thoroughly paranoid. Despite the wound being virtually healed there was still a high likelihood of his death due to the significant amount of blood that he was lost across the floor of a cavern hidden beneath a dive of a city. She didn't have time to wait for him to recover; the Battle of Bruma was looming over her head in less than a week, and as it were she was bound to be hard pressed to arrive in time. And if _she_ was late, Nirn would fall.

She sank down beside him, hugging her knees as she decided to wait a little while just in case he were to wake up. She hoped he would, because he possessed a spirit that would be useful in the battle, and a way with words that she simply did not and never would that she could call upon when she found herself pressed to speak to the masses of the soldiers – something she knew would happen beyond a shadow of a doubt. "Come on pondscum," she muttered to his unconscious form, her voice barely louder than a distant whisper as she noticed that a tiny portion of her magicka supply had returned.

_If only it had returned sooner_, Idari's mind growled bitterly despite the fact that the amount that had been restored was barely worth the effort of calling magicka and would help with a grand sum of nothing. To pass the time she rose and prodded one Banus Alor in the ribs with her foot.

"Do you know anything about magic?" she asked him as he groaned in protest. His duel with Bellamont in the Night Mother's tomb had been impressive from her point of view, however he - like Arquen – appeared to be suffering from a bout of simply not behaving like an assassin in the slightest.

"No, Listener," he muttered as he hauled himself to his feet, smearing the dust from his black robes with the light blue skin of his hands to little or no effect. "I never showed much promise in the arcane arts. However my Speaker told me often of the many uses of Restore Magicka potions for the budding mage. I am hard pressed to believe that this Sanctuary would not have some."

Idari's head tilted to one side by a tiny amount. "Were you aware that this Sanctuary was Purified?" she growled, her words with the power to do some real psychological harm should she apply herself to them.

Banus shook his head. "No, Listener, I was not. However, that does not change the fact that there are likely potions stored here," he pointed out to her, her red eyes almost as set as her own. "The Cheydinhal Sanctuary was among the largest of our headquarters in Cyrodiil, so it begs to suggest that there would be at least one assassin amongst them who relied mainly upon magicka, does it not?"

The female froze for a moment, thinking carefully about what he had suggested. Had there been a mage in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary? Yes... She was sure there had been. Who? M'raaj-Dar. The only image of the Khajiit she could conjure into her mind was the look on his face as she had eviscerated him with her Akaviri katana, a look of shock and of horror and of comprehension of a betrayal. He had been less than accepting of her in her brief time in the Sanctuary, and even less so after she had been forced to depart and take up on her schedule of dead drops under one Lucien Lachance, but he had abided by the Tenets always with rapt loyalty. And she had taken advantage of that in much the same way as she had taken a blade to his torso.

But that did not change the fact that he would have kept a supply of potions!

Idari darted from the room with an intense sense of urgency into the Training Room, her mind this time providing her with pictures of her slaughter of Telaendril and Gogron gro-Bolmog, their blood still staining the cool grey stones as she began to rummage through a rickety old chest that M'raaj-Dar had kept next to his own private little training area which he spent so much of his time forcing people to stay out of. The third bottle she picked up was sufficient – the words '_Strong Restore Magicka Potion_' scrawled across a papery label in a wiry script – and she pulled the cork from it in an instant, upending the contents into her mouth without a thought that it might have been just about anything in that bottle, including a deadly poison. She wouldn't have put pulling a stunt like that past the dead Khajiit.

It seemed to have done the trick however, because she felt the alien sensation of her magic supply being forcibly synthesised within her inner being. Normally she would never have allowed her store to get so low that she would need to take a potion to restore it, and up until this particular moment that plan of hers had suited her kindly. Until it came to Restoration.

She was an assassin, not a healer. Restoration was not important in her line of work. Not until it came to befriending a certain Argonian.

Said Argonian was the single most accident-prone, injury-stricken person she had ever had the displeasure of meeting, yet he seemed to be extraordinarily lucky with it. He was more likely to die from falling off a cliff than to die in battle in her opinion; he could survive vampires draining his blood and liches blasting him with their ancient spells, he could break his arm and fall off a platform while running through an Oblivion gate and _still_ somehow make it out alive. If she could only figure out how he managed it she would satisfy her brain somewhat by giving it a mildly reasonable explanation for the strange, strange circumstances that led to his _still_ breathing. Perhaps he truly _was_ blessed by the gods...

Returning to him now she used some of the artificial magicka to heal any wounds she was sure still remained on his person, checking his pulse again for what felt like the umpteenth time to find it the same as always. Banus Alor watched her with an odd fascination, no doubt wondering why she cared; she knew she was wondering the same thing around about now, even if she knew that the reasons behind her caring stemmed from the last time that she and Turner had been in this very Sanctuary together so very many months ago.

"Come on pondscum," she hissed, fully aware that the other Dunmer was hanging on her every word. She had given up caring what people thought of her a while ago. Jabbing the Argonian in the ribs with her foot she paused a moment to consider exactly what action she was willing to take if he did not regain consciousness soon. Was she to leave him in the Sanctuary and carry on alone? Did she dare waiting? Bruma would survive without him, that much was a given.

His breaths continued to come in ragged, uneven gasps as the Dark Elf glared at him with her red eyes seeming almost dull by comparison to their usual fiery blaze. "Leave me," the Listener spat to the unsuspecting Speaker behind her without turning around to face him, causing him to virtually jump at the suddenness of her outburst.

"As you wish, Honoured Listener," he replied, inclining his head as though a servant to his master before sweeping away in a similar direction to that which Arquen had taken earlier on so that only Idari, Turner and the ever present Dark Guardian remained in the entrance to the once great Cheydinhal Sanctuary.

"Damn it Turner!" she growled, sorely torn between kicking him and kicking the wall. She appeared to have completely missed the fact that she had called him by his real name for what was quite possibly the first time ever. "You had to choose _now_ to be unconscious for bloody ever, didn't you? You _had_ to be stabbed! I don't. Have. Time." She felt like screaming in frustration and yet she didn't just leave him to rush off back to Bruma where she was needed. "Stupid bloody Argonian..." she muttered under her breath as she crossed the room to pull up a chair next to him, glaring at the amount of light pouring through the grating above the well entrance, which was currently very little. "You've got until midday, Turner. I'm not exaggerating."

xxx

Dawn crept over the walls of the Arcane University with speed almost akin to that of a cliff racer in flight, dousing the whole area in its warm yellow glow.

It was apparent that the news of Seanturco's resignation from the position of Arch-Mage had yet to circulate through the masses that were the Apprentices, as a few of them stopped to greet him more formally than he would have hoped only to be sternly put in their place by a newly promoted Orcish Master-Wizard between her rasping breaths.

Raminus Polus called the contingent of battlemages before the pair as requested. In these dark times and in the battle against necromancy there were far fewer stationed here than either of the two Master-Wizards would have liked, despite Raminus' assurance that each of them were worth more than their weight in gold. Looking at them as they came together, Seanturco began to have serious doubts about the worthiness of some of them.

There were perhaps sixty as a total rounded number, and there seemed to be at least one representative of each race despite the majority of them being Imperial men. The only ones that the Altmer could recognise were Thalfin, Merete and Iver, though Rush seemed to know most of them at least on sight if not by name as she stalked between the ranks attempting to find a suitable squad to accompany them to the battle. Raminus deemed it acceptable for them to take away thirty so as not to leave the University under protected, despite the fact that the threat of Mannimarco – and therefore most of the necromancers – had been neutralised. Seanturco left the selection process to his Orcish counterpart.

Thalfin appeared to have recovered from her period of anger that had flared up outside Silorn, perhaps because she had been promoted to Warlock following the success of the ambush. When she saw the newly applied symbol of office on Rush's armour she looked as if she had been smacked in the face by a very, very heavy object.

The sound of heavy wheezing alerted him to his apparent 'protector's' approach. He didn't really consider their relationship to be anything like a mage and his defender any long; whether she viewed the changes in the same way he did remained to be seen. She bore the pain of each breath with a brave face, barely a moment where the illusion of being healthy left her face, and slowly called out the names of those she had selected; those who were not chosen were informed rather brusquely to leave. Seanturco was rather shocked that she managed to complete this exercise without descending into one of the agonising coughing fits that he had witnessed countless times on their return to the University from Echo Cave.

The High Elf saw that as his opportunity to step forwards and speak, scanning the crowd of those who remained for any single face he might even recognise a smidgen of. He saw only Thalfin, Merete and Iver amongst the sea of the unfamiliar. "You are probably aware of the threat that our province is facing from Oblivion," he addressed them. He would have rather that they had entered some more secure area in which he could enlighten them on the finer details of this mission, however it seemed that the University was not prepared for large gatherings of battlemages to be briefed before they ran off into battle led by an Altmer who had stepped down from the position of Arch-Mage the night before and an Orc who was dying from rotted innards. "Perhaps you are not aware that there is a beacon of hope for Tamriel residing in Bruma." He didn't mention Martin by name, painfully aware that there were probably still spies to those assassins who murdered the Emperor just about everywhere. "The Mages Guild have been requested to send forth fighters to aid the soldiers at the Battle of Bruma that will ensue rather sooner than we would like, and you are the souls who have been selected for the task. Though some of you may not survive, it will be an honour to fight at your side... Does anybody have any questions?"

When nobody moved in the following thirty seconds Seanturco foolishly began to assume that he had got away with the task of having to answer any awkward questions they fired at him, that was until a female Orc near the back of the mass of battlemages thrust her gauntleted hands into the air and spoke without seeking permission to go on. "So we'll be fighting Oblivion?" she asked tersely as if she didn't believe a word he was telling them, though she seemed to be watching Rush more than she was watching the ex Arch-Mage. He couldn't help but notice she was the only Orc that his companion had chosen to accompany them.

" Yes," Seanturco replied quickly. "I do not know precisely which daedra we will be against, however the Oblivion gate that opened outside of the city of Skingrad seemed to spew forth a selection of lesser daedra: scamps, clannfear, daedroths... I imagine that at Bruma the force will consist of stronger daedra, perhaps Dremora and Xivilai." His mind travelled back to Fort Teleman and the daedra they had encountered there, the Xivilai that Rush had taken upon herself to occupy in order to save _him_, and his stomach knotted uncomfortably. "Anybody else?"

"When is this battle?" a tiny Imperial man at the front of the group demanded forcefully. For a member of his race this man was abnormally short to the extent that Seanturco almost assumed that he was a Breton until his thick Cyrodilic accent gave his true nature away.

The Altmer turned his face to the rising run to inspect its position. "We are leaving immediately," he decided quickly, his hand travelling to the hilt of his enchanted sword as if to check it were still there. "I am sure that more details will be provided when we arrive at the camp-site." He turned on his heels and strode up the stairs with an odd sense of authority; strange, since he had given _back_ any of the prestige that he had held post the death of one Hannibal Traven.

" Is it _really_ true that you killed Mannimarco?"

This question made him stop in his tracks and spin violently to face the offending speaker. The man in question was a Breton who appeared to be carrying little more than an iron shortsword somewhere near the back of the troupe, his arms were folded in disbelief and his blue hood was pushed back off his face to reveal an oddly amused expression; an insignia on his armour showed that he was a mere Journeyman.

"Yes," Seanturco replied after glaring at the man for a few moments in search of some ulterior motive.

"And is it true you were a vampire?"

The High Elf did a double take before taking a forceful grip on the hilt of his weapon. By the looks of it, Rush had instinctively done the same thing,though whether to help him or hinder him he had yet to ascertain.

" Do I _look_ like a vampire?" he sneered in reply. _Don't get angry_, his mind warned him fervently as he suppressed an urge to growl.

"I said 'were'," the Breton man pointed out, though his expression seemed to have grown even more entertained.

" Who do you _think_ you are?" Seanturco snapped, controlling himself only when Rush glared at him dangerously.

The man gave a curt, condescending bow. "Journeyman Mebestian Guerrier," he introduced himself, his accent adopting a thick tone reminiscent of that of High Rock as he pronounced his own name. "I like to know who is leading me to my death."

The Altmer snarled, but noted that every other battlemage seemed to be hanging upon whatever his next sentence might be. Apparently they had all suspected his period of undeath at some stage and were all equally curious, though only this particular man had the pertinacity to ask the question. "Very well," the ex Arch-Mage growled, his voice barely louder than the wind so that the people around seemed to be craning their necks as subtly as possible in order to hear his response. He saw Rush shoot him a sideways, inquiring glance as if asking whether he really wanted to tell them the truth and yet somehow... he did, and he didn't know why. "Yes. I was inflicted with vampirism for a period of roughly five weeks, during which time I acquired a cure. I assure you, I stand here before you with none of the previous symptoms of my affliction," he added when he saw a small proportion of the people he was addressing backing away instinctively. He couldn't say he blamed them; he had experienced for himself the brutality of vampires.

"Let's get movin'," the Orcish Master-Wizard instructed through the silence that ensued after her companion made his admission to them. Half of them appeared oddly shocked, a fact she had to wonder about seeing as she had figured out his secret almost the instant she had met him; the other half, Mebestian Guerrier included, seemed oddly smug with having figured this fact out for themselves and having been proved entirely correct.

The large group traipsed through the Imperial City as far as the Chestnut Handy Stables before Seanturco instructed them to find a horse if they had one and meet them on the road. With thirty battlemages following him the Altmer seemed curiously unworthy to be leading them into battle as he mounted his own chestnut horse which he had never got around to giving a name to, resolving to do so if he actually survived the Battle of Bruma – something he doubted highly without Rush being up to full health and able to watch his back.

The woman in question had slunk back into the gaggle to speak to the other female Orc that she had chosen. A quick glance backwards gave Seanturco an uneasy feeling about the newcomer, as the pair seemed to be partaking in heated exchanges, deliberately speaking in Orcish so that none of the other battlemages would be able to understand their words. When she finally returned to the front of the group, her paint horse apparently objecting to the action of moving at all, she did not seem best pleased.

"What was that about?" the Altmer asked tentatively. He didn't want to pry into her life, but he felt he ought to know if there was something with the potential to tear his troupe apart from the inside out.

Rush stared straight ahead for a few moments as they rode slowly through the village of Weye – a tiny place that consisted of little more than one house and one inn less than half a mile from the Imperial City. The unmounted battlemages behind them sounded as if they were grumbling about the fact that it was the Bruma guildhall that Mannimarco had chosen to destroy and now they had to walk all the way there. Seanturco couldn't quite comprehend their complaints; Guild Guides were expensive and notoriously hard to catch at a good time. That, and walking was far more reliable; if one ticked off a Guild Guide, there was truly no way of telling just where they might send you until it was too late.

Eventually the Master-Wizard sighed, "My sister Murz," she muttered, though the rasping of her voice made it rather difficult to work out what she was saying when she was speaking at a reasonable volume.

The ex-vampire blinked in shock. He had known her for over a month now and never had he assumed that she had had any family, and he had never even thought to ask her about this fact. He shot a glance back at the woman behind them, searching for some semblance of recognition; it was a fruitless action; most Orcs looked virtually the same to his untrained eyes anyway. "You... never mentioned having a sister," he pointed out as he returned his focus to the road ahead, blue eyes scanning the horizon quickly before fixing more specifically on the route they had chosen.

"I had forgotten about her..."

"Forgotten about... your own sister?" Seanturco repeated slowly, trying desperately to fathom _how_ somebody could fail to remember their siblings. He didn't think of his kinsfolk much, but he would never admit to having _forgotten_ about them.

Rush seemed to accept his apprehension perfectly. "When I left Orsinium Murz was a little over four winters, and I only twelve; I have not laid eyes upon her in almost two decades..." She cringed in pain as a short burst of coughs tore through her lungs, but managed to recover herself before the mages behind them began to expect that they were being led by unsuitable leaders. "Shockin'ly, she made it quite clear she don't wanna be here with me, but she says she'll stay fer Tamriel or whatever it is we're fightin' for..."

"Don't you two get on then?" The Altmer was entirely aware of how nosey he was beginning to sound but settled upon pressing the matter anyway.

The Orc shook her head with a brief smirk. "Nah. When I left our father was already dead, and she told me our mother died since then but she won't tell me when... I di'n't actually know who she was 'til jus' now, or I never woulda picked her to come along with us..."

"Rush, you're dying," the ex-Arch-Mage pointed out solemnly, his eyes transfixed firmly on the ground as the words left his lips. It shouldn't be _her_ dying; _he_ was the one sent to fight Mannimarco. "Do you not think some reconciliation is in order?"

"I ain't got nothin' against her," his companion stated, throwing her hands up in a mocking symbol of surrender. "She ain't gonna forgive me though, she already told me that... I never regretted leavin' her behind, and she hates me for it..."

"And you're prepared to go into battle alongside her?"

Rush shrugged. "Well, I reckon she's a decent mage," she replied, barely sparing her sister a glance as she turned to scan the crowd of battlemages again. Perhaps half of them had horses, worn out old things that would die in a heartbeat if pushed too hard by their riders and were probably only ridden about once a month if they were lucky. Mages were notorious for not getting out much. "Why'd you tell 'em about bein' a vampire?"

Seanturco's face set. "They have a right to know," he explained vaguely. "I'm not a vampire anymore, and my experiences as a vampire taught me much about myself. I would like to think they changed me for the better, as I do not see myself walking away from this battle in the slightest. I am not a battlemage, I am just an Altmer – albeit an ex-vampire, ex-Arch-Mage Altmer with friends in strange places and the sword-fighting ability of a guar..." He took a few seconds to smirk at the image in his head of a guar wielding a sword before continuing. "No. Before you and I accosted Mannimarco the only thing that defined my life in any way was my stint as a vampire; it made me who I am today, it shaped me into the one who would take on the King of Worms and escape with his life... And I owe a lot to you. I would have been made a Worm Thrall by now if it weren't for your timely intervention and selfless sacrifice..." He shocked himself with his admission, and he was almost one hundred percent sure that he had shocked her too judging by the bemused expression on her face. "Thank you," he whispered. "There's really not much else I could say in order to repay you..."

xxx

_'Damn it Turner, wake up_'

With his consciousness waxing, the Argonian in question could have sworn he had heard that wrong. Nobody called him by his name these days... But the voice belonged to Idari however quietly she decided to mutter, something that well and truly astounded Turner. He could not remember a single time she had called him anything other than a derogatory nickname; she may have used the very same nicknames for every figure she came across save for those she deemed to be of utmost importance – the only example that the Silencer could think of off the top of his head was Martin Septim – but that did not change the fact that Turner could not remember one single instance of her ever having called him by his real name.

The pain to his abdomen was sharp and concentrated but bearable, and his head span but his thoughts were perfectly clear with it. His fingers clenched against the stonework beneath him as he lay still, trying to figure out where it was that he had ended up without opening his eyes, and judging by the sound of shifting the woman watching him had noticed the movement instantly.

A pair of golden eyes eased open, attempting to get their bearings as they swept the stone-clad ceiling for some familiar sign. He stared blinking at the roof, trying to find something, anything that he might recognise. However, before he could really reach a valid conclusion the face of a Dark Elf assassin appeared in his field of view, blocking his view of the masonry above anyway.

"About bloody time," she muttered, obviously mildly seething as she stalked off the gather whatever it was she decided was necessary, throwing a long glance at something in the opposite corner of the room before moving off again.

Turner struggled the sit up, brushing off the burning twinges his stomach threw at him in protest. From his point of view it looked as though he was in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, a fact further emphasised and indeed confirmed by the presence of a large ominous bloodstain beneath the thick wooden doors to the Training Area. Why was he in Cheydinhal, he had to wonder, when he had last been in Bravil? Surely it was far too great a distance to drag an unconscious Argonian clear across almost half the province just to end up in Cheydinhal. And why Cheydinhal? Surely Bruma would have been more useful.

_Bruma_. Yes, she should be in Bruma by now, not watching him lie there like a lizard-skin rug.

"Get moving," she snapped at him as she reached the door and it began to rasp open in its usual eerie fashion.

Reluctantly he obeyed, dragging himself onto unsteady, unused feet for what felt like the millionth time. He really needed to work on his ability to walk away unscathed now that he had walking away alive down to a fine art. "Shouldn't you be in Bruma?" he asked her, rubbing his hand over the side of his face as she exited leaving him to follow on after her.

"Where do you think I'm going, pondscum?"

The ex-beggar smirked. "No, I meant... Shouldn't you be there already?"

If she had been facing him, Idari would have been glaring daggers at him at that precise moment; as it happened she was more focused on prising the door to the main body of the Abandoned House open. "I'm afraid somebody had the indecency to be stabbed," she spat back sarcastically before she was hit by a sudden thought. "What would you say if I made you a Speaker?"

"I would say you were out of your mind and were dooming the Brotherhood to a dark, dark future," Turner blinked, obviously more than a little taken aback by her comment.

"Tough," the Dunmer stated, a wry smile spreading over her blue lips despite the fact that it would never be seen. "As Listener I can appoint whomever I want to be Speaker, and there's really nothing you can do about it."

"Listener?" He almost choked on his own words as the deliberation struck him hard in the face. Idari Mortha would never willingly give up her freedom to become Listener, and he couldn't imagine a single instance that would leave her with no choice but to accept it. But he had been dying.

The assassin in question was virtually grinning now, and her voice took on a whimsically morbid tone as she spoke. "I know, right? It was jolly indecent of that stabbing victim..."

"What does your becoming Listener have to do with me?"

"Don't be stupid Turner, I couldn't let a friend d-" She stopped in shock of what she had just allowed herself to admit. She was slipping, she really was, and that didn't bode well for her surviving the Oblivion gate in Bruma at the moment. Not only had she called him by his name to his face, but she had also admitted to having a friend, and anybody who knew her at all knew that Idari Mortha didn't have anybody she considered to be a friend. Except Turner, obviously.

The Argonian in question was almost as stunned as she was. She had slipped before, yes, and she had shown that she cared with her actions more than her words on more than a couple of occasions, but she had never stated it quite this plainly. Being friends with an unbefriendable Dunmer seemed like quite a impressive feat. "Why me, huh?" Since she had already fallen this far it didn't seem like a bad thing from his point of view to press just a little bit harder for information.

Idari stepped out into the streets of Cheydinhal without answering his question.

"Why – me?" the ex-beggar repeated when he caught up with her, putting emphasis on every word as he spoke it. "You don't _have_ friends."

"Because you saved Reron," the Listener snapped in reply. There was venom in his words but the delivery of them led her to seem... vulnerable? Turner had only known her to seem this vulnerable once, and that had been when he had found her after the Purification and therefore understandable; now she just seemed to be falling apart.

Silence reigned as they left the city and the heavens opened to pour down bucket-loads of water onto their heads. Typical that the weather should choose _now_ to act up, the Argonian decided; perhaps the rain had decided to tip down on them in foreshadowing of something bloody? That was what Quill-Weave had taught him about things like this when he had lived with her in Anvil, when he was honing his abilities as a bard for what he thought would be a better future. He hadn't known back then that he would end up as an assassin. He also wasn't entirely sure that the concept of pathetic fallacy worked in real life...

As they reached the stables he heard Idari swear vehemently. Of course, she should have realised that being moved clear across the province by a woman who was so close to being a god without being one that the lines between deity and mere immortal being became blurred in protest of her existence would result in her horse being left exactly where it was – in Bravil. Shadowmere was fast and intelligent, but there was really no way for the demon horse to get to Cheydinhal and still have sufficient time to bear his rider to Bruma. Walking was far too slow...

"Perhaps you could acquire a horse by other means?" Turner suggested as he stared at the other animals in the stables. He noticed that his old paint horse had long since disappeared.

The Dunmer snapped to face him, a look of confusion in her eyes. "I'm surprised that you would suggest such a thing, pondscum," she explained as she reverted to his given derogatory nickname. Well, he hadn't expected her to keep it up. Suddenly a sadistic grin spread across her face. "course... You do have a point."

The unwilling Argonian swallowed back his objections as the Dark Elf hopped over the fence into the paddock of the stables to take a good look at the animals there. Black horses all, the steeds sold at the Black Waterside Stables were supposedly astoundingly fast and incredibly strong; in truth, they _were_ astoundingly fast and incredibly strong, but only when one wasn't comparing them to Shadowmere.

Turner decided to keep his eyes on the stable buildings in case the ostlers should see the assassin perusing their wears with her dark intentions to spirit a pair of them away. He could remember all too well what had happened the last time a stable-hand had attempted to stop her stealing a horse.

Animals selected, she gestured for the ex-beggar to approach and keep them in his sights while she vanished to acquire a pair of saddles which she reappeared with a few minutes later before slinging them over the horses one by one. Finally, she handed the reins of one of them to the Argonian as she mounted the second to exit through the gate that she had opened on her saddle-gathering travels.

Ten thousand Septims worth of horse stolen in a spontaneous fit of grand larceny, the pair seemed to get away without too much difficulty, riding as quickly as the newly-acquired animals could run. The battle was in little more than two days time, and it certainly would not pay to be late.

xxx

The Jerall Mountains were always beautiful at this time of year. At least, that was the opinion of one Jena Artoria as she stood on the battlements of Cloud Ruler Temple gazing across them. Far below, a camp that now seemed to surround half of Bruma was growing daily as more and more soldiers arrived to fight. The snow that fell thickly around them led her to believe that it might well be raining elsewhere in the province, but it never rained here and hadn't done in all the years she had lived here.

They seemed to be turning up in droves now as the Counts and Countesses of Cyrodiil sent in their men and women, and as the guilds got their acts together. Jena could almost pinpoint the distinct groups here and there, the red of Skingrad and the blue of Chorrol standing out against the white of the Jerall snow, more than a hundred of each cramped into tiny base camps gathered around tiny fires that flickered in the wind. The Blade had got used to the weather in this place over the years, but she still didn't blame them for attempting to find some semblance of warmth amidst the chilly mountains and the frozen flakes.

Jauffre was pacing up and down the ramparts in something of a panic by now, cursing the gods that the Hero chose now to be late. _He should have known never to trust that bloody ashlander_ he muttered over and over, pausing on occasion to glare down at the path in search of her as if he didn't expect her to show her face at all. Jena had spent enough time with the Dunmer on their short mission to know that there was no way on Nirn that she would shirk he duty. Ever. She would be here; she had to be.

"Word from Countess Umbranox, Grandmaster," a small Bosmer Blade announced breathlessly to the Breton, interrupting his precise journey up and down the walls abruptly. "The gate seems to have closed itself. She is sending men to arrive tomorrow."

"Closed itself?" Jauffre repeated, his voice scarcely more than a growl as he scanned the pathway again. "That is _not_ a good sign." _The daedra were preparing for something_.

Jena tried to watch her Grandmaster from her sentry position once more as the Wood Elf slunk away to the nearest source of heat to stop himself turning into a chunk of ice before it was too late. He looked even older now as he ran a gauntleted hand over his balding head and surveyed the scene that his Blade had found so intriguing.

"Jena!" he barked so suddenly that the woman in question almost jumped out of her skin. "The battle is drawing so close now that I doubt the Mythic Dawn will attempt to get up here again. Gather the Blades; the plan must be conveyed to the commanders on the ground if we are to succeed, and since the _Hero_ hasn't seen fit to grace us with her presence yet it seems as though we must pursue this without her."

"People are still arriving, Grandmaster," the Imperial pointed out, turning to face the man she was speaking with.

The Breton's eyes narrowed a little. "One can never be too prepared when facing the unknown," he explained, grey eyes staring at the scorch marks that still covered the earth outside of Bruma from the Oblivion gate that had opened there. "The numbers we have now are pitiful, and they are mainly City Guards who have barely seen action against mortals, let alone daedra. Gather the Blades, all of them, and fetch Martin from his quarters. He insists on taking part in the battle against my advice and who am I to deny the man who will be our Emperor?"

Jena nodded. "Understood sir," she murmured politely, giving a brief salute before hurrying off to carry out her orders to the letter.

It was a shame that the beauty of Jerall would be spoilt by the Wastes of Oblivion in only a few days time, she decided as she hurried between the buildings of Cloud Ruler to gather together her fellow Blades, be they sleeping, eating, sparring or standing sentry, or whatever else they saw fit to pass their time doing.

When the company were assembled in the Great Hall their Grandmaster conveyed to them the orders for the plan that he had drawn up with his trusted Captain Steffan and sent them away to give the instructions to the people below, one and all. Jena decided rather quickly that it was nothing more than a hopeless diatribe of nonsense; they had perhaps one to one and a half thousand soldiers compared to limitless, immortal daedra. There was no chance they could win, even _with_ the somewhat delayed Hero of Kvatch.

Nevertheless, morale was lifted a little when Martin strolled calmly into the room wearing the Armour of Tiber Septim; needless to say, Jauffre looked strangely as though he had been punched in the face seeing the precious relic that it was his duty to protect being worn, even by its rightful heir. It was golden in colour and radiated power and importance even before it was equipped by a man who was the only survivor of the Septim Dynasty.

When the Breton opened his mouth to object, the would-be Emperor silenced him with a wave of his hand. "Armour is made to be worn, Jauffre, not looked at through glass," he explained smoothly. "Since this armour served my ancestor so well, I suppose that it would do the same for me."

Yes, Jena decided as she and a large group of her fellow Blades were hastily ushered from the room by Captain Steffan and sent on their way down the slope to the unplanned camp-site, Emperor Martin had grown up a lot since his arrival at Cloud Ruler; perhaps he had finally come to accept that the responsibility for Tamriel lay on only his shoulders and those of the Hero of Kvatch. Sufficed to say, the female Imperial did not envy his position one bit.

The wind seemed colder the further one travelled down the mountain. Odd, though perhaps there was some geographical reason that escaped the likes of a simple soldier like her, or perhaps it wasn't colder at all and she merely thought that due to her being so used to the micro-climate surrounding Cloud Ruler Temple itself. The trees glistened with a sheen of frost as the light hit them and the snowflakes fluttered around them, making them sparkle as the ice crystals made the refracted sunbeams dance to their whims.

If there was one thing Jena was certain of, it was that there was a spirit in this camp that had never quite been conveyed the the people at the top of the mountain. They knew they were going to their deaths, they knew it was a suicide mission, but they were ready; Dagon wasn't going to win without a fight.

The group of Blades broke now, each with a certain destination that they had muttered about on the way down the slope – to Cheydinhal, to Skingrad, to Kvatch, to simply wait... Jena knew as well as any that they were still waiting for members of their force to arrive, and the Blades were going to be forced to wait for them or simply face the wrath of a rather stressed Breton Grandmaster back at the fort as he _attempted_ to guide the new Emperor to little or no effect. The Imperial herself was destined to Cheydinhal; she narrowed her eyes as she scanned through the smoke of the camp-fires in an attempt to make out the green and brown uniforms of the soldiers of that county.

It proved largely fruitless. Some of the men had been here for weeks almost, the first to arrive being the guards from Skingrad, and the sheer amount of smog that hung about the place made it verging on impossible to make out any intelligible shapes or colours. From the air the whole site looked far more idyllic, but on the ground... If she survived – something she doubted – Jena knew she would never look at the Jerall Mountains in the same way again.

Finally, after what felt like hours of being directed from one person to the next, she arrived at what seemed to be the base for the soldiers of Cheydinhal. The tents were little more fancy than sheets strewn randomly over poles and held down by large rocks around several small camp-fires. Who knew how many Cheydinhal soldiers had arrived to fight? Jena's rough estimate was around one hundred in five small circles around tiny blazes to keep warm; there were not as many men from this county as from others, but the contribution of Count Andel Indarys was duly noted and appreciated by the severely lacking Bruma Guard who, while in their home town, had looked about as haggard as the rest of the troops last time the Blade had laid eyes upon them.

The commander was located simply enough as he was one of the only Bretons in this part of the camp. The Guard always claimed not to be racist in their selections to join their numbers, but Jena couldn't help but notice that almost every single member was a male Imperial in this small area.

"Bring news from your Grandmaster?" the Breton spat as she drew close to him. Jauffre had ordered that all soldiers remain ready for action at all times, much to the annoyance of a select few of them; they still wore their armour, though the odd pair of chainmail gauntlets could be seen on the ground without an owner.

Jena nodded. "A battleplan," she explained and the man grumbled in protest. She wondered how this Breton had come to be a Captain in the Cheydinhal Guard with an attitude like that; if she were Andel Indarys, she would have sacked him and found a replacement by now.

He turned and seemingly pointed at the first of his soldiers at random. "You can tell the plan to the Watch Sergeant," he grunted, returning to hunch over the fire in order to warm his shivering hands and brush flecks of snow from his dark hair.

The selected Imperial jumped to his feet and snapped to attention on instinct, a broad grin on his face as Jena stepped around the fire he was sitting at to try to find a more secluded location for the plan to be conveyed. "A pleasure to meet you, ma'am," he proclaimed politely as he followed her. He at least looked more ready and more keen for battle than that Breton had seemed, as though he actively wished to be here.

"Knight Sister Artoria, Sergeant," she corrected him, using her official title as she addressed him only by his rank. Location selected, an area slightly freer of smog and more sheltered from the weather than the ones they had passed through, she finally got a good look at the soldier.

He was taller than her by a good few inches and seemed to wear that same grin on his face at all times. His armour was oddly well-kept for somebody who had been living in a grimy camp for a questionable amount of time and his face was largely obscured by the helmet he wore, though she could make out brown eyes and what looked like dark hair. "Watch Sergeant Serocold," he introduced himself in reply, inclining his head a little. "It is an honour to be fighting alongside the Blades for the good of our Empire."

Jena inspected the areas of the camp that she could still see. "You know, Sergeant, you might be the only person in this camp-site to say that right now," she sighed. "We are fighting a losing battle."

"Yes," the man agreed quickly, that same grin _still_ fixed on his face. The Blade wondered how he could be so optimistic at a time like this. "But it doesn't stop us being a royal pain in Dagon's arse."

The woman couldn't find any way to counter that argument, however hard she might have tried. She gave up and relayed the plan to him in as much detail as she could manage; luckily for her that Breton had succeeded in choosing a Sergeant who at least had the braincells to ask appropriate questions and to retain the relevant information to convey to his commander when called upon. If only more soldiers on their side were like this man...

"Talos guide you," she said when she was certain that he had memorised the important sections of the plan and was prepared to leave him now to return to his small fire and the only pretence of warmth in these bloody mountains. She didn't blame them. Not everybody had been living above Bruma for several years.

"Knight Sister?" the Sergeant inquired, grabbing her by the arm as she ventured to depart. It was not threatening – far from it – but he seemed more serious than he had previously. "Do not fear death," he instructed her calmly, a queer glint in his eyes. "Death will only bear us to Aetherius, and beyond that the unknown..." He stopped and smirked. "However, Knight Sister, _do_ try not to die."

xxx

"We can't let what happened to Kvatch happen to Bruma..."

"You think I don't know that?"

The Argonian sighed heavily at what felt like the thousandth outright rejection of his words since they had left the Sanctuary and begun the ride to Cloud Ruler Temple. The Great Forest had closed in around them and encased them in its shadows once more but this time they rode at a far more reasonable pace; the Hero of Kvatch had learnt from experience now that using magic to speed up the movement of horses did not end well.

"You could have left me behind... I would have caught up later..."

"Don't be stupid, pondscum."

Again with the derogatory nickname? He hadn't expected her to keep it up, not even for a moment, but at least now he was sure she even _knew_ his name. It wasn't as if he used to refer to himself anymore... Perhaps because it wasn't even an appropriate name to accompany a member of his race?

"How long do you reckon until we get there?"

"A few hours, at this pace."

Well, at least they wouldn't miss the battle, though the Dunmer was clearly not in the mood for speaking to him or to anybody, so he almost dreaded what would happen when she was forced to report to Jauffre not only late but also in a truly foul mood. _She really should have left him behind_.

He decided to take the hint and stay silent this time, taking stock of his surroundings in what might very well be his last journey in this place. The trees were always large, always imposing; the path was always worn, beaten down by countless riders and countless pairs of feet; the boulders were always huge, always covered in moss. Such a _normal_ journey for the one that might be the last one of all...

"Idari..." he began, voice trailing off into silence as it struck him that _he_ had never called _her_ by her first name either. At least, he couldn't remember a time that he had addressed her directly to her face. "What happens if we fail?"

The Dark Elf seemed to growl for a few seconds before it morphed into a sigh. "Dagon will win," she admitted with a small shrug, spraying drops of water from her shoulders as she did so. It was absurd for her to be riding so slowly after growing used to Shadowmere; she felt an urge to go far faster than she was at present, but refused to expend her magicka on this again. "There is nothing else to it..."

"So if we lose this battle Tamriel will fall?" It was a bleak prospect to say the least.

Idari considered this carefully. "Basically, yes."

The Argonian nodded. "So... You mustn't be late," he pointed out. The strange look he received bade him continue. "If we really _pushed_ these horses, how long would it take to get there?"

Frowning, the Dunmer inspected the road in front of them for a moment or two before taking a long look at the horses they were riding. "At a stretch, an hour... Don't expect to be going anywhere any time soon though; it's not a long enough distance to ride these things to death, but horses can succumb to exhaustion too..."

"Then let's ride," the ex-beggar smirked, jarring the animal with his heels so that it took off at a slightly more enviable pace. Idari watched him for about the length of time it took her to blink twice before following suit.

As it happened, the woman's guess was surprisingly accurate; the rain that had apparently followed them all the way from the Nibenay Basin, through the Heartlands and the Great Forest looked to be subsiding until they noted the heavy clumps of snow falling from the sky in their place. It was a relief, until the water that was still covering their leather armour all but froze itself in place and stubbornly refused to move from that point onwards, leaving the pair resembling semi-icicles.

Even through the snow they could make out a gaggle of tents that could only be the location of a camp. Preparations were under way for the battle it seemed...

"I must go and see Jauffre," Idari muttered when they reined in the horses at the stables outside of Bruma, leaving them there where they would no doubt remain for an indefinite amount of time. "You may do as you wish."

The Argonian smiled wryly. "Of course I'm going to come with you!" he chuckled, gazing over at the camp before a flurry of snowflakes blew into his face and forced him to look away. "I might not be the Hero of Kvatch, but I'm about as stuck in this as you are."

She nodded and set off up the hill towards the fort. The pair stood out like sore thumbs against the white of the snow in their black armour, but Idari suspected they had probably given up looking for her by now; Jauffre would _not_ be impressed. She deeply wished that she had had the sense to bring her Black Hand robes to wear, and if she had known this blizzard was going to hit she definitely would have done; her fingers ached from the cold and the wind in her face bit at her nose and her lips until she lost all feeling. Beside her the Argonian kept his head down but seemed to be coping with the weather somewhat better than she was – then again, he had lived for a time on the streets of Bruma while she had not.

Clenching and unclenching her hands into fists in order to keep the blood flowing through them, the two assassins reached Cloud Ruler during a few seconds of lag in the whipping wind and freezing water descending from the sky and terrorising the mountain and her inhabitants. The gates were closed tightly – a fact that was in itself unsurprising for the place that housed the Emperor's only heir – however the Dark Elf cursed her luck to see that whoever was expected to stand sentry was currently not at their post and thus there was nobody to _open_ the gate. They had probably not been expecting visitors in this weather.

"Can't you fly over the wall?"

Idari stared at him blankly for a few moments before smirking. "Levitation is illegal in Tamriel," she reminded him, sparing a glance at the camp below. "And with that many guards... It would be truly the epitome of foolishness to try." Thinking carefully for a few seconds, the smirk spread into a sadistic grin instinctively before she placed her fingers into her mouth and whistled shrilly. Beside her an Argonian clapped his hands over his ears in an attempt to save his hearing and somewhere in the distance she could have sworn she heard the sound of something shifting loudly, a fact that made her chuckle quietly to herself at the thought of having likely caused a small avalanche.

Less than a minute later an irate Breton Grandmaster's face appeared over the battlements, glaring down at the pair as he rubbed an ear awkwardly. He barked an order to the other Blades and the gate was pulled open as the wind began to pick up again, forcing them all to hurry into the Great Hall before they were blown from the edge and descended the mountain in the least graceful style imaginable. A fire crackled in the grate, and the Dunmer crossed to it almost immediately to thaw out her frozen armour and regain some feeling in her toes followed closely by her Argonian companion.

"You're late," a Breton voice growled as the door opened again to emit a blast of gelid wind that sent shivers down the spines of every individual present.

The Dark Elf ignored him for a few moments as she sat on the floor, focussed solely on warming herself up sufficiently to stop shaking involuntarily. "I'm not late," she pointed out with a sly smirk as soon as the pain that came with moving her digits subsided somewhat. "If I were late, the battle would be over and the battleground strewn with corpses." Jauffre's eyes narrowed, amusing her greatly. "You gave me a week. I have returned within a week. Thus, I am not late, merely... delayed."

"This is not a game," the Grandmaster snarled at her. "There are _lives_ in the balance here, over as thousand of them, and you choose to arrive less than two days before they lay their lives on the line? You are supposed to be their _Hero_, not someone who breezes in at the last minute and clears up the mess!"

Idari rose to her feet and turned to face the elderly Blade. "Oh, I am _far_ from their hero," she chuckled, the look of irritation lacing his features warranting a rather smug expression from her in return. "The Emperor saw me in a dream. That does not make me a hero."

"You did not _have_ to save Kvatch," a quiet voice from behind her proclaimed. What did _he_ know about it? How did _he_ know she hadn't been _forced_ to save Kvatch?

"I rest my case," Jauffre concluded, straightening up by just a fraction. "You may stay in Cloud Ruler Temple until morning if you wish, however tomorrow we are moving to the main camp in readiness for the battle. The daedra will be strong, but we will be ready. Steffan will inform you of the plan," he added, gesturing sideways to where his Captain waited to one side, dutiful as always. As an afterthought, he inquired: "Will you be entering the Great Oblivion Gate alone?"

The Dunmer considered this prospect briefly. "I believe it may be the only option," she decided after only a few seconds, nodding almost imperceptibly as she spoke. "They will be prepared for my assault – I don't doubt that – but I believe there will not be much time between it opening and their... attack. Martin saw what happened in Kvatch; perhaps you would do well to ask him?" she suggested. She was sufficiently warm now, however the puddle of liquid that had formed around her feet drew her attention and she took a rather large step to the side to avoid it.

"We have taken that into consideration already, Dark Elf," Steffan told her, unmoved from his position. "You will not have long. I would suggest simply running as opposed to fighting. You can cast invisibility and chameleon spells?"

"Obviously."

"Then I would utilise them," the Imperial advised. "There is no room for error. A minute too late and Bruma will fall to Dagon's might."

Idari nodded. "And while I am inside you will die fighting the daedric hordes in an attempt to save a city doomed from the off?"

The Captain's face darkened. "We are currently so greatly outnumbered that there is next to no chance of our forces surviving," he sighed, keeping his voice low as the mood of every individual in the room sunk with him. "The only thing that would now prevent our battle ending in disaster is a miracle..."

* * *

_Author Note: This is the first BiA chapter EVER to have been written with a functioning spellchecker. All I've decided is that spellcheckers hate Rush; you should have seen how much of her speech was underlined! Yes, it's a jumpy chapter, but I'm... Well, it's a filler before the Battle of Bruma, isn't it? I need to cover all the bases with all my characters, right? This chapter... I like, but I don't like... Some of it is good, some of it is... OK... Also, Jena got given a surname randomly too... I felt she needed one._

_I've been thinking for a while about who I would dedicate this chapter to... I got TEN reviews, which is brilliant! All you reviewers are awesome! Eventually I decided on three: **EmyAV **and **Arktemis** for taking the time to review for the first time... And **nachosforever**, for making me laugh AND leaving two reviews... Oh, and a special mention to **Nachtrae**, because it really does look like a kangaroo :P_


	45. Druscashti

_Miss me?_

_**Yukidog: **I do know what you mean about Turner being a tad too lucky, but what can I say? I didn't intend for him to have SO MANY near-death experiences. The one in the Night Mother's Crypt was planned from the start, and the others just seem to have happened, unfortunately. Oh, and there ARE long term consequences - I think... He was limping a few chapters back, at least. Yes, I know my battles need to be more descriptive... I've honestly been working on them since the start of the story; they're getting there, I think :S I'm good at describing a mutilated body? I'll take that as praise XD Thanks for the review_ ~ARTY~

_Quote: **He that troubleth this own house shall inherit the wind: and the fool shall be the servant to the wise of heart –** Proverbs 11:29_

* * *

_Chapter 45_

The journey between Anvil and Bruma was a long one, Falicia's mind complained bitterly to her as she rode with a small group of fellow Fighters Guild members. Having returned from the single most pointless contract she had been sent on in her life she had been packed off with a number of members from the Anvil guildhall destined to take part in the battle; Vilena Donton had ordered it, Azzan had informed her. She didn't quite see the Redguard volunteering himself now, did she?

The Bosmer looked around at the people accompanying her. Fighters all, they were an odd bunch – men and women, young and old, and almost every race; a bow-wielding Nord and a dagger-toting Redguard alongside a mace-holding Altmer, and several more normal sights: an Orc with a war-axe and a Dunmer with a shortsword among others. There were a dozen of them in total from Anvil, and more from the other guildhalls, so they had heard from Vilena, though fewer from them as the chapters themselves were smaller and less popular or were just losing members to the ever ubiquitous threat of the Blackwood Company.

Asides that, the details that the guild members had been offered was strangely inadequate. As a Guardian, and therefore the highest rank among them, Falicia had been expected to lead them into battle – or at least as far as Bruma. None of them quite knew what it was they were up against, but something to do with these Oblivion gates was all that she had managed to extract from a rather ashen-faced Azzan as he relayed to her the Master's orders. If it was awful enough to scare the Redguard into staying behind from the battlefield – 'To oversee things here' was what he had said – then the Wood Elf truly didn't look forward to it. Fearing for one's life was not cowardice in her book, especially when one fought for a living on a daily basis.

She glanced at the horse beneath her; it was a sturdy thing with a white coat that was flecked with mud from the ride, no doubt it was fast and powerful, but Falicia didn't know a thing about the animals and thus often gave them a wide berth. However needs must, and this situation required swiftness. Beside her rode a Redguard by the name of Rhano, the only other member that she could truly imagine she knew anything about; a good foot taller than her, his dark braided hair fell almost to his shoulders and his brown eyes were set hard, focussed only on the task ahead. She didn't pretend to know much about him, but there was a rumour that his elder brother had recently been killed in the Arena by an unknown Orc; she couldn't really say she blamed him for being a bit bitter about it.

The Bosmer pulled a red cloak from the bag she had insisted upon bringing with her and hung it about her shoulders as the air grew chillier, pulling it in tightly over her queerly mismatched armour and unusual weaponry as she shivered.

Originally from Haven, she was more used to trees and expansive ocean than to mountains and snow. She had never been this far north - even on a contract - and every experience here was a new one, from the clear, brisk air to the crunching white powder beneath the hooves of her white steed. Then majestically Bruma rose from the mountainside, grey walls bursting from the ground into frosted battlements dotted with watch-fires; the castle was set higher still and overlooked the land below which was currently scarred with tents and squalor rather than beautiful scenery as Falicia suspected it may have been at some point. The stables were full of horses, everything from a pathetic paint nag to a truly terrifying purple stallion which the other animals were subconsciously giving a very wide berth; Falicia ordered her comrades dismount and tie their own mounts to something that wasn't likely to move. She intended on getting back to Anvil somehow.

"Hail!" a Breton Blade exclaimed, appearing behind them from the snow like some kind of monster. The Bosmer had heard stories of a hideous Uderfrykte monster in these parts, and she wasn't prepared to take any chances; she removed her hand from the hilt of her dwarven longsword as soon as she identified the speaker. "Who have you been sent by?"

"Vilena Donton." Falicia had only set eyes upon the woman twice. It was unusual for a female to be heading any guild, let alone a guild of fighters, but she did not doubt that many years ago the Imperial would have been something of a force to be reckoned with: driven, skilled, loyal. However now the woman was no longer young; time had ravaged her with its evil powers and snatched away her husband and eldest son on contracts for the very guild she was running. With her drive and loyalty shattered and her skills waning with every day she got older, Falicia imagined that Vilena had stayed as Master of the Fighters Guild in order to keep busy, keep tabs on her youngest son, and in order that she might not be seen to be abandoning her guild in their time of greatest need with the foundation of the Blackwood Company.

The Blade nodded with a friendly smile. "Anvil Chapter?" he inquired, waiting for a simple nod from the Bosmer before he continued. "You're the last," he explained pending a strange look. "Follow me." The Breton then proceeded to lead them through the camp.

The path they followed was thin and worn by countless pairs of boots, cut off in places as tents flapped in the biting wind that ravenously sunk its icy teeth into their flesh. No snow was falling, but it clearly had judging by the white flakes littering the area and dusting things that had evidently been left for the time being. Men and women huddled in their hundreds around tiny, insufficient fires but kept about them a look of readiness and of revenge. Underfoot the ground was damp and slippery; Falicia put it down to her natural balance that she did not slip on it, unlike her comrades who were virtually skating as she tucked a stray strand of her blonde hair back into its position beneath the cloth band she always wore to keep it from her face, her grey eyes continuing to search for something or someone familiar besides the eleven comrades at her back.

It was a Nord who first spotted the small area allotted to the Fighters Guild among the grimy tents. The Bosmer wasn't quite sure of the Nord in question's name, but she knew all too well that the woman had been grumbling about returning to the winter and snow for the entire journey. Of the two Nords in the guildhall, both had refused to go; in the end, Azzan had had to pull rank and order one of them to go or else they both would be.

This part of the camp looked oddly worse for wear as they approached it. The fires were spluttering black smoke in the faces of those brave enough to approach and a thick smog was hanging about the tents, coating them in carbon every time the wind changed direction. Vilena Donton, wrapped in a cloak but a few paces away from the pathetic heat source, was speaking gravely with a Dunmer that Falicia knew to be Modryn Oreyn, Vilena's second in command, from the last time she had visited the Chorrol guildhall. The Imperial looked tenser than usual, perhaps to do with the fact that her son Viranus was nowhere to be seen – probably left behind by his mother for his own safety – or maybe because a great battle loomed over their heads.

The Blade muttered something about their Master knowing the plan and marched away swiftly, leaving the Wood Elf to step around the flimsy cloth tents in order to speak with her guildmaster after telling her companions to make themselves as at home as one could be stuck in a mountain before a war with Oblivion. Falicia was sure that the Imperial looked older than she remembered, her lined face proving she had seen more than a handful of winters and her hair greyed by stress and time, cut above her shoulders to keep it out of the way as her learned blue eyes inspected the newcomers. She wore armour beneath her cloak that looked as though it may once have fit her like a second skin, moulded to her body but wrought in iron or steel – the Bosmer could not quite distinguish between the two as she inspected it – but now it looked old and the shape looked slightly awkward, dangerously thin and yet not quite vulnerable. Yes, that armour would see her well, as would that silver broadsword slung across her back like a trophy of a dim and distant age long forgotten by even its wielder. Her hands were ungloved and her fingers moved periodically to keep a blood supply flowing to them in this harsh environment, deep wrinkles crossing them like snakes and the blue of her veins visible through the lightly tanned skin.

"Greetings," she announced, a small smile pulling her lips upwards. Her voice was as knowledgeable as her appearance, perhaps even more so; it spoke of a distant but tragic past and the wisdom learned from it, a strong-willed woman who had lost nearly all that she cared about but saw fit to continue with her existence as always in honour to the dead. Behind her, her second-in-command Modryn Oreyn sneered a similar sentence.

The Dunmer too looked more than ready for battle. His cuirass and boots seemed more dented than Vilena's, though as only second-in-command Falicia was fairly sure that he would see more action than the aged Imperial; on his legs he wore only leather as though he didn't suspect to encounter any vulnerability at any stage during the next forty-eight hours. The Wood Elf was half inclined to call him a fool and be done with it. His coarse black hair was pulled into a signature mohawk, flecks of grey slipping in as his age and experience began to show as with the Master, and his red eyes burn cold as he obviously recognised the woman from Anvil following her brief time at the Chorrol Chapter. Though who could forget the contract in which she and Viranus Donton discovered a broken Blackwood Company shield next to the mutilated body of a farmer? He never stuck Falicia as particularly courteous, though by now she was fairly sure that most Dark Elves behaved in that way – perhaps a part of their heritage? - and his overall attitude seemed to show this perfectly in the way he greeted the new arrivals. On his belt hung a spiked mace that only increased to the threatening demeanour of the man wearing it, dried blood encrusted upon it where he had been too lax to clean it, perhaps? Falicia subconsciously decided to focus her attentions upon the guildmaster first.

"Hail, Master," she responded formally, taking stock of the camp again now that she was inside. The fire was crackling but the wind blowing was causing it to shrink in protest as if to savour its own warmth all to itself despite the attempts of the Fighters Guild members to protect it from the Jerall's frozen fury. Behind her her fellow Anvil fighters saluted to their Master, no doubt longing to rest from the journey or to huddle around their own small fire.

The Imperial woman nodded. "You have arrived just in time," she tried to explain calmly, though there was a very real look of agitation about the way she spoke. "Word from the Blades is that the battle will be at dawn." Was she worried about her son perhaps? Falicia knew that if she were in battle and her hypothetical child were not, she would be far more concerned about her own safety than that of the child, though she could not begin to empathise with the elderly woman even if she wished to.

Looking at the sky, the Bosmer attempted to gain some grasp of how long it actually _was_ until dawn, though a thick layer of cloud prevented her from getting a clear view of the sun and scuppered her intentions in an instant. "I hear there is a plan," she settled upon saying eventually. If she were honour-bound to do battle, as Azzan had put it, then she was not running in blind, swinging wildly at the creatures she knew nothing about; she could do nothing about knowing little of the daedra, but there was a clear way of preparing for the dawn should she have a firm grasp in her head about the logistics of the plan which she gathered had been drawn up by the elusive Grandmaster of the Blades and his most trusted colleagues.

"Yes," Vilena nodded again, relaying the plan in a detailed but brief explanation by drawing a diagram on the frozen ground with a charcoal covered stick that she retrieved from the flames and answering any questions thrown at her by her underlings with serene grace of character while Modryn merely scoffed in the background, murmuring about unreliable boots. When it was over the Imperial directed the Anvil newcomers to their tents, brown sheets provided by the Bruma Watch and balanced over flimsy wooden poles, held to the ground by anything from boulders to daggers piercing the material and the earth below or tied down with fraying lengths of rope that looked only slightly less likely to snap at a gust of wind than the Bosmer's willingness to fight the fight the armies of Mehrunes Dagon. "You can make a fire if you want to cook some food or to keep warm," the Imperial told them solemnly. "The townsfolk in Bruma usually cook some sort of stew for the soldiers, but stretched as it is it's not very substantial. I trust you saw fit to bring food with you?"

Falicia nodded hastily, though the bag she had brought with her contained little more than a chunk of bread and a wedge of cheese that were beginning to go stale from the trip. She had given up that Meat Mandate rubbish when she had left Valenwood behind; a good thing too, given how many fallen enemies she would have been forced to cannibalise during her work with the Fighters Guild, but she still did not enjoy destroying plant life as she watched an Altmer drawn a distinctly browned apple from her satchel and bite into it hopefully. Nor was she particularly thrilled when her fellow members disappeared from the makeshift camp and returned with an armful of wood that they had obviously cut from the trees nearby.

"Make sure you don't put the fire downwind of the tents," she reminded them as they began to arrange their small mound of timber a little too close to her own accommodation for her own liking. Grunting, Rhano shifted the pile to a position a little more satisfactory before one of the Dunmer lit it when a blast from a fireball that nearly sent to bundle of sticks sky-high. Falicia rolled her eyes at the sight, drawing her red cloak more tightly to her body as the others scrambled to get closer to the blaze that they had created and luckily had not spread to any of the nearby tents due to one overzealous Dark Elf's miscalculation.

Bruma, Falicia decided, was a beautiful place, or would have been before all this Oblivion Crisis nonsense kicked off in Kvatch for a reason that she had yet to ascertain. Why Kvatch? A gate had opened outside Anvil but no attack had come besides the odd daedra that was easily sniped from the city walls by an archer or a mage, so why had Kvatch been razed? Maybe there was something special about Kvatch, maybe someone Dagon wanted dead? In all honesty, the Bosmer didn't have a clue what was so particular about the destruction of that town, and she'd never even been there so it wasn't as if the place meant anything to her.

Sighing, she lay back in the tent on the hard, cold ground, oblivious to the fact that it was embedding dirt in her hair as she pulled the red fabric over her body and let her grey eyes slip closed. She didn't want to sleep – and she didn't suspect she would be able to – but she still wished to feel as though the world were passing her by for a few minutes while she found her calm in preparation for a fight that she truly wasn't equipped to survive...

xxx

Sheogorath chuckled insanely as She stepped from the portal which was henceforth known as A Strange Door. It _was _a strange door set on a tiny island in the centre of the Niben, the face of a grinning madman set in stone as the curious blue mist swirled into lands unknown – into Oblivion – in the place of its gaping mouth. Split in half, the island was a marvel of madness, one part covered in bright and beautiful flowers while the other blanketed in rotting, oozing mushrooms and other such fungi. It was a tribute to the Madness of its creator, and now its creator stepped forth.

The Breton woman with oddly mismatched and terrifyingly distorted eyes was the creator of this place, and yet She was not. She was the god Sheogorath, but She had not always been, for the name of the god was eternal and yet the manifestation was not. Soldiers were promised from the Madgod and soldiers would be delivered by the Madgod herself directly to the door of Grandmaster Jauffre of the Blades of Cloud Ruler Temple.

Sheogorath – once known as Eugenie Corinth, Champion of Herself and Duchess of Mania – took stock of Nirn. She had not been here since She had been delivering Her Lord's – or was it Her own? - message to the Blades a little under two months ago. A staff was clenched in Her pale Breton fingers this time, a willowy branch from a shadowy tree and the swivelling eye of a Heretic who had seen Sheogorath's throne lying empty during Greymarch; one of only a handful of Greymarch survivors. The staff gave Her power now – or was the staff given to Her by Her power? - ability to do what She would when She would; the old man Dyus had told Her She could do as She pleased as the Madgod, and do as She pleased She would – She still possessed just enough of Her sanity and humanity to see that the mortals needed vast quantities of help against Her fellow Daedra Mehrunes Dagon. A mortal god, a living legend... No, no, Eugenie could not have that; She had sought out Dyus again and asked him of the secret that the previous Her had used to make him immortal so that he might be tortured forever in Knifepoint Hollow and so that he could guard the secrets of Jyggalag for all eternity. She had made Herself immortal, if only that She might be prepared for the battle that She faced now, for She had defeated a Daedric Brother before and now She sensed that She might have to vanquish another in aid of what had once been Her homeland.

Or so She had thought when She decided to follow this course of action.

A moment later and Her daedric bodyguards joined Her from the portal, Commanders Staada and Dylora of the Aureals and Mazken respectively, and She grinned madly as the poor stranded Bravil guard sent to watch over this gate cringed away in fear – he would go mad waiting for relief and then She could claim him for Her own all in a matter of time. Of the two races Eugenie's sane half decided that the Dark Seducers were named most appropriately; their skin was always pitched somewhere between lighter grey and blackest charcoal, covering their finally shaped bodies impeccably, and they wore precious little armour – knee length boots made of black sheet metal, hideously short armoured skirts and barely more than a thin darkly-coloured metallic bra that showed off more than a little immaculate cleavage, and pauldrons and gauntlets that covered most of their thin arms. Most too wore queer dark helmets, though even the Madgod had noticed that all the exceptions to this rule seemed to be high ranking Mazken officers. Despite this they were deadly in battle; their perfectly formed bodies flowed with indescribable strength as they wielded almost any weapon that came to hand, and eerie green pupil-less eyes burned with unquestionable passion. They did not fear death, and there was no need; their daedric origins simply allowed them to be reborn from the appropriate wellspring should they fall foul to their enemies and their might.

By contrast the Aureals had skin of purest unblemished gold and catlike golden eyes that they had shared with the previous embodiment of Sheogorath. Their armour too was made of solid gold, and similar to the dark armour worn by the Mazken; knee-length golden boots and short golden skirts accentuated perfectly toned legs and a tight-fitting cuirass stressed their altogether flawless shape, pauldrons and gauntlets shielding their arms from danger. On their heads every one wore a winged helmet which fitted in with their saintly image; only the officers were subject to exception.

Both races considered themselves above lowly mortals, even those who held great office in their domain of the Shivering Isles – Sheogorath the only being who could truly claim to controlling at least part of their respective contingents – but perhaps oddly they were extremely biased against all males, even members of their own race; Eugenie had always preferred the Mazken before She had lost sufficient proportions of Her mind to cease caring.

"Where to, my Lord?" Staada asked loyally; her voice was strange and distant as with all the other Aureals, but she wore no helmet, revealing brown hair that was cropped short. The golden longsword in a loop of her belt gleamed in the sunshine of Nirn that it had rarely seen before.

In Her immense wisdom, Sheogorath had neglected to tell Her soldiers who they were fighting for or against. "Dagon is attacking the mortals with might. I supposed my daedra would even the fight," the Madgod chuckled, Her purple eye swivelling around in its socket as Her remaining blue eye attempted to stay focussed on the mainland off in the distance. "The battle will be hard; Bruma the location. But today we will battle to set free a nation."

"We live to serve you, Madgod," Dylora stated, nodding her head in reverence to a former mortal her kind were now forced to oblige. They seemed to take the transition rather well, however; not that Sheogorath had the presence of mind to decide whether they thought otherwise.

Eugenie Corinth chuckled as She descended the thin winding pathway towards the water of the Niben, Her daedric servants following Her closely and ready for anything; they needn't really have been – their semi-Breton, semi-Daedric Lord was capable of taking care of Herself – or was She? She may have been immortal – or at least She had decided She was – and She may have been armed with an infamous double-bladed weapon hungry for blood, but asides from slaying Jyggalag She really had little fighting experience to Her name. Or naming experience to Her fight. Or names experiencing flight! Games in the light are all clean and bright...

"Bruma is up north in the high mountains cold; the journey is long and the trodden path old..." the Breton woman spoke, sounding oddly prophetic as the word flowed off Her lightly accented tongue. Then She giggled madly. "That's why I left a Mark at Cloud Ruler Temple!" Beside Her, the two opposing daedric commanders remained stony-faced as their Lord allowed Herself to double over in manic laughter, blithely ignoring the world around Her for those few brief moments until Her breathing failed Her and She straightened back up.

"Good thinking, my Lord," the Mazken woman stated monotonously. Her ebony hair was long and hung loose around her shoulders but yet did not mask a single aspect of her altogether too perfect face. Personally, she did not seem entirely enthralled by Eugenie's indubitable logic, but she wasn't about to commit insubordination by questioning it.

Scraping Her ginger hair from Her eyes with a sleeve of Her grimy green coat, the Daedric Lord began to chant in Her native Daedric language despite the fact that She couldn't understand a word, yet She could understand it perfectly. She traced a Daedric letter in the air as Her chanting grew faster, gathering volume and sparks of iridescent magicka as Her pale fingers flitted about in the air, forming a picture, a word – She couldn't quite tell, and yet She knew perfectly well. It was alien to Her and yet familiar beyond any shadow of a reasonable doubt. The pupil of Her purple eye slitted so that it were almost non-existent as the silver ring about the dilated pupil of Her blue eye glowed ominously, soon joined harmoniously by the silver and gold sigils painted perfectly on Her cheeks depicting an 'M' and a 'D' which at the time of their depiction had stood for Mania and Dementia, the two separate halves of the split personalities of a Madman. Suddenly She clapped Her hands together and light flowed from them in streams, weaving their way between everything on the island, spiralling about the foliage until they began to home in on their creator and Her two guardians, colliding with one another over and over until the trio vanished leaving nothing but a few fleeting sparks of white brilliance that fizzled out when they met nothing but air to bestow their powers upon.

A flash of light that rebounded off the snow-capped mountaintops indicated the arrival of a middle-aged ginger-haired woman with strange eyes, stranger armour and two bizarre looking bodyguards in Cloud Ruler Temple courtyard, much to the shock of the Blades who were patrolling about looking for intruders coming from _outside_. It had never quite occurred to them that a woman of Breton appearance could simply appear in the centre of their stronghold without trouble.

The Madgod laughed at their expressions as the pupil of Her purple eye returned to its normal shape and effectively restored Her temporarily impaired vision; She was virtually blind in Her blue eye anyway, the dilated pupil leaving Her susceptible to even the smallest changes in light intensity.

"You again?" A voice behind Her sneered. Sheogorath did not recognise the voice, and yet She did – or She had once; or maybe She would in the future?

"Indeed, little Hero," the Daedric Lord stated without turning around. Her accent sounded slightly off, and reminded Her of Her old self, the Her before Her – the Her who had vanished with the Greymarch to never reappear. Beside Her, Her two commanders reached for their weapons in order to assault the threat to their Lord until a pale hand flicked up and gestured for them to be at ease.

The owner of the voice stepped around the intruder to take a better look. A Dunmer. The same Dunmer as before, and yet not the same; a shell of her former self which was glaringly obvious to everyone except those who knew her but did not. "I see you've brought friends with you this time," she pointed out, taking stock of the Mazken and the Aureal in turn before returning her attention to the ostentatious woman. "You promised you'd join the battle last time you were here," the Dark Elf recalled, her hand on a silver shortsword that hung at her waste as extraordinarily sharp red eyes flitted beneath a dark hood taking in every inch of her surroundings and yet locked firmly in one place. "I suppose you have come to make good that promise."

"Indeed. My promise I have come to make firmly good. I am glad to see that you have understood," Eugenie Corinth nodded as the icy Jerall wind whipped through Her hair and yet completely avoided the staff clenched tightly in Her fist. "I have brought with Me My soldiers to aid this battle." No rhymes, perhaps a sign that She was being serious for a change. "Commanders Dylora and Staada of the Mazken and Aureals," She introduced gravely, pointing at each daedra in turn as She spoke their names.

"Daedra?" the Hero questioned, a smirk playing on her dark lips. Sheogorath couldn't help chuckling as She heard the sharp intake of breath from one of the Blades supposedly on patrol; though, of course, the barely identified intruders were probably holding the majority of their attention at this precise moment. "As they hold allegiance only to Sheogorath, one would suspect you've gone up in the world, Miss Corinth. A mortal has not been known to achieve apotheosis since Tiber Septim, and since he became one of the Nine he hardly counts at all."

The Breton woman laughed heartily. "It is indeed not often one does battle with a god. If it were a regular occurrence, success would still be odd."

"You fought Sheogorath?"

Eugenie shook Her head. "In a sense yes, but in true essence, no; 'twas Jyggalag who fell to a well placed blow."

The Dunmer cocked her head to one side in response. "Order?" Her eyes narrowed a fraction as she attempted to comprehend some sort of link, something that would make the Madness clear; but she found nothing. Sheogorath could see the confusion in those cold red oculi and yet She could also make out an undeniable clarity that swam beneath the surface, a bubbling insanity in a still pool of calm serenity.

Yes, the Madgod decided as She twisted Her staff around in Her hand on the spot, Idari Mortha was as mad as the rest of her ludicrously psychotic family.

xxx

The sun had already crested at its highest point in the sky when somewhere out in the distance nine mounted figures came into view headed in the direction of the camp at Bruma. The man leading the bunch was of Redguard heritage, a large man with thick corded muscles and a chiselled, dead set face with hard dark eyes. He wore armour unlike anything the onlookers had seen before; news had travelled far and wide about the amassing of soldiers in the northernmost town of Cyrodiil and the attention had garnered interest – be it people merely appearing the witness the spectacle or freelance fighters intending to join their cause, though the Blades were somewhat selective of who's help they accepted, despite the fact that they were scarily low in number at the moment. The equipment this man wore was obviously enchanted – even those with little to no magical affinity could see that – and looked as if it had seen battle maybe only once or twice; the tabard was of purest white, adorned only with a single red diamond – the symbol of the Nine. His followers wore similar, though the basis of their armour was largely chainmail, whereas their leader appeared to be wearing steel at the very least.

A select few of the spectators recognised the man as the famous Divine Crusader, a mortal fabled to have appeared soon after the priests and priestesses of Anvil chapel were brutally murdered by... something. The public had never really been told what had happened, only that there had _been _a series of murders in the chapel and that the carnage had been followed by the appearance of a Prophet preaching doom and despair to the masses. Apparently at least one of the people he was preaching at was worthy.

After that little news had been heard of the Divine Crusader except that he had been sent on Pilgrimage by the Prophet to repent of his sins and make good with the Nine – odd really, for if the Nine had chosen him to be Their servant then why did he need to prove himself? It wasn't as though he would have very much choice.

As suddenly as he had left the spotlight, the Divine Crusader was back again, gathering relics of the Nine. In particular, his collection of the Gauntlets of the Crusader garnered the attention of the masses as he healed a sick man by taking on a debilitating curse purely out of the goodness in his heart. From that moment the supposed 'Divine Crusader' became a legend. He was attacked left and right as the chapels in Cheydinhal and Bravil were ransacked the same as the Anvil chapel, priests and priestesses murdered brutally by savage golden beings that were apparently daedra – Aurorans, the people who actually knew what they were talking about called them, with the help of a reference book or two from the depths of the Imperial Library and the back of beyond; servants of Meridia but commanded by a being known as Umaril the Unfeathered, rumoured to be an Ayleid sorcerer allied to the Daedric Prince that so little was known about.

It was said that the Divine Crusader defeated Umaril, not only in battle but also on an ethereal plane high above the Imperial City, falling back to Nirn but presumed to be dead. To see him alive now was certainly a relief to the more religious aspects of the community.

Now returned to his rightful place on this mortal plane, the Divine Crusader rode swiftly with his Knights of the Nine. There were eight of them in total: his second-in-command, the Redguard Sir Thedret, Imperial Sir Avita – the only female knight and former worshipper at the Shrine of Kynareth from which the Crusader had collected his Boots, Bosmer Sir Brellin – a late arrival to the troupe but brave and true, Nord Sir Gukimir had lost his brother Geimund in Garlas Malatar but remained strong in his faith and claimed that he would give his life in a second for the Crusader just as his brother had done, Redguard Sir Lathon was an ex-squire to a knight who had lost his life while trying to retrieve the Sword of the Crusader but his will was keen and his sword struck systematically making him a valuable asset to their fight, Altmer Sir Areldur had been unable to take on the curse of Stendarr himself and had joined the Knights of the Nine in order to make up for his failings, Imperial Sir Carodus had failed to retrieve the Mace of the Crusader and had apparently decided himself unworthy to receive this Divine gift until the Crusader had allowed him to join this holy band, the final Knight was Orc Sir Orakh who had not been present when they had taken on Garlas Malatar and defeated Umaril but had been drawn to the Priory of the Nine by the news of their plight and by his faith in his gods. A fearsome bunch; the Divine Crusader could not think of more loyal companions.

They approached the camp swiftly as the Sun began its weary descent – its final descent before the upcoming battle – and the pounding of nine sets of hooves was unmistakable as the animals were driven to run faster, spurred on by the Nine or so the Divine Crusader would claim. It was clear that they were not expected, given the way the long-term residents of the military encampment stopped their weary attempts to find warmth to gape for a few moments before returning to their activities. A single female Blade emerged from between the tents as the nine Knights slipped from their horses and secured them to a nearby tree for want of somewhere better to place them; the Imperial woman approached with an air of questioning about her, her helmet shrouding the majority of her face from their view.

"Who are you?" she enquired, her eyes searching the band of Knights for any sign of suspicious activity. Seeing none, she stopped scanning but did not let her guard down.

The Divine Crusader stepped forward a step from his companions and removed the winged helmet from his tanned head to reveal short-cropped dark hair and a face that might have been considered handsome, if the Blade had happened to be a Redguard. "My name is Zavik," he introduced himself with the headdress under his arm while saluting with the other. "And these are my fellow Knights of the Nine." He did not bound his title of 'Divine Crusader' around, and why should he? The mark of a true hero was humility, after all.

The Blade's eyes narrowed slightly, though rather in consideration than malice. "Would you happen to be the one they are calling the Divine Crusader?" she asked, glancing at the differences between his armour and that of his fellows.

The reply was immediate. "I did not take up my Crusade alone. Why should one man be elevated above another? Because I was the one who dealt Umaril the Unfeathered his final blow? I tell you now that I would not have been capable of such a feat were it not for the Divines Themselves in their providence and my most trusted of comrades in their steadfastness." A man of the Gods, it was clear to see, though something about him suggested that he had not always walked such a righteous path; he had come to Anvil from Rihad in Hammerfell in order to join the crew of a ship and seek his fortune. While there he had overheard the sermon of a crazed Prophet that seemed to be calling to him to take up arms, and from then on his Fate had been steered by the Nine – or so he claimed.

"The battle is scheduled to take place at dawn," the Imperial woman informed the Redguard and his brothers. "The Blades will be sent to wake you a few hours prior to dawn for final preparations and briefings. Until then..." she glanced at the tents behind her with an odd mixture of disappointment and disdain. "You shall probably have to see if you can find tents or share tents. The Bruma Watch has all but run out of camping supplies for the soldiers."

"What are the odds of victory?" Sir Thedret asked quickly as he saw the woman was wrapping up to leave them. It was not truly the odds themselves that he was worried about as he believed the Nine would protect them in their time of greatest strife, but he merely wished to see their chances of winning from the eyes of one who had been in this place far longer than he had.

The Blade's face darkened and her brown eyes turned to the ground briefly before turning the meet the Redguard's defiantly. "Our chances of survival are low at best. Dagon's forces outnumber ours infinitely. We have somewhere in the reason of one thousand five hundred fighters on our side, capable men and women with blades, bows, magicka, but Dagon holds the servitude of truly unlimited, immortal daedra. We may not win, but at least we may slow him down long enough for the Hero of Kvatch to collect the Great Sigil Stone needed to retrieve the Amulet of Kings from the Great Gate."

_Ah, the Amulet of Kings_. Yes, Zavik had heard of that artefact. It was touched by the Nine, they said; contained a gemstone as large as one's fist and as red as fresh blood that was encased in the purest of gold and set with smaller gemstones of eight different colours the represent the Eight Divines who had been worshipped at the time of its creation before the apotheosis of Tiber Septim. The Red Diamond itself was a large Soul Gem fraught with Ayleid magicka and power, said to contain the soul of Akatosh Himself so that only those who were considered of Dragonblood could wear the precious amulet.

And anything containing the soul of a Divine was worth retrieving at all costs in Zavik's mind.

xxx

Light filtered through unaccustomed red eyes as a young Dunmer man regained consciousness. _Light? Danger._ He recoiled from the source of his danger, instantly alert, throwing his arms over his face and attempting to escape the risk in order to find a safe haven until it was dark.

"Whoa," a voice behind him said as a steadying hand touched his arm to prevent him from falling off the... what was this that he was on? A horse? There were no horses on Vvardenfell... "Watch yourself." Watch himself? Why would somebody tell him to watch himself? In his coven nobody had looked out for anybody other than themselves, so why now?

The man looked at the hand on his arm and recoiled in shock to see that dark skin of a Redguard and a sleeve of chainmail armour. _A soldier?_ No, not likely. Any soldier had been taught to kill his kind at first sighting and ask questions later, and in fact many a soldier had lost his life at the result of just that aspect of his training. Stupid illogical Legion.

Hissing ferociously, the Dunmeri man attempted to wrench himself free from the Redguard's grip, but only succeeded to tighten it around his arm. "Please try and stay still," the Redguard insisted. It was an order, though he sounded concerned. _But who was concerned about a vampire?_

Suddenly, the Dark Elf stopped struggling, not because he was under orders but rather because he had just realised that the setting Sun was not causing his skin to smoke; it ought to be causing his skin to smoke, oughtn't it? "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice coarse as the words passed from his parched throat. He sniffed the air but found an absence of the smell of blood. _Most unusual..._

" My name is Baurus," the Redguard explained. "I am a Knight Brother of the Blades." _The Blades? _What would the Blades want with a simple blood-sucking vampire? "Your name, Dunmer?"

The man narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. This _Baurus _that kidnapped a vampire without knowing his name? That was truly... unusual. At least, the Dunmer was fairly sure that he had never seen it happen before... Now if only he could turn and drain this so-called _Blade _of a few pints of his blood... "Reron Mortha," he hissed, considering when it would be strategic to begin thrashing again and when he could use his superior strength and speed to escape...

This _Baurus _seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as her heard the Dark Elf's name, but also perhaps a little surprised – maybe at the fact that the vampire had given his name so freely? It didn't matter that he had given this name to his fool; he wasn't going to be around much longer anyway. "How are you feeling?" the Redguard asked gently, his hand still clenched around Reron's arm to prevent anything sinister happening. _Or that was what he thought_.

Oddly Reron could feel a little pain in his temple, a strange thing that he hadn't had to experience for almost a year now... He felt better than to admit to a weakness that could be exploited by soldiers to find out more about his home; perhaps they had given him some serum that lessened his vampiric symptoms and that explained why he was allowed in the Sun without taking damage? Who knew? "Where are you taking me?" he demanded instead, running his tongue over his teeth to find... nothing. _No fangs. _unusual...

"Bruma," the Blade explained, though he didn't go further to elaborate.

_Bruma?_ There wasn't a town called Bruma in Morrowind... In fact, the only Bruma that Reron could think of was in... Cyrodiil? Who in Cyrodiil would wish him to be taken to Bruma? He didn't know anybody in Cyrodiil, even when he racked his brain and thought with all his might. He had never even to Cyrodiil, so this sudden abduction by a Blade of all people was... most unusual. Had they singled him out, or was he merely the first one they had selected? Perhaps, given the eruption of Red Mountain, they wanted information on the locations of vampires on Vvardenfell so that they could finish off those who had not been killed by the lava flow and subsequent ash storms, or perhaps they merely wanted to kill him. But why take him to Bruma to do that?

"How long until we reach Bruma, Redguard?" Why bother to ask who wanted him there? Since he knew nobody in Cyrodiil there was no chance that he would know the person who had authorised his collection.

"Less than an hour now."

So Reron had less than an hour to kill this man and drain his blood? Well, that was simple enough. He did not really fancy his chances attempting to take on an entire city single-handed. Back when he had been living in Druscashti they had picked off stragglers alone in the West Gash, or stolen into Gnisis under cover of darkness to drain dry a randomly selected individual, and for all other times there were the cattle to drink from. But where were his fangs?

He checked his teeth again by running his tongue over them and found nothing. Odd... Also odd was the fact that he had woken up without a nightmare for the first time in almost a year, though the pain in his temple rather suggested that it hadn't been of free will that he had fallen asleep. His hearing felt deteriorated and somehow his muscles did not quite feel equipped for the job of running... Which almost led to suggest that he wasn't a vampire anymore.

But that was impossible.

Nobody was cured of vampirism.

The hour went swiftly as Reron pondered his future; his attempts as tearing himself free ultimately failed time and again, which showed him quite clearly that he had lost his previous super strength. That, or the Blade was a vampire too, which was something he doubted. Law men weren't vampires...

There seemed to be some sort of large camp around the city. Was it a refugee camp, perhaps? From his fellow vampires in Druscashti he had heard that cities all over Tamriel were being destroyed by Oblivion gates, including those on Vvardenfell, so maybe people had fled their burning towns to congregate in the mountains among the snow. It wasn't particularly logical to hide in the cold, but at least there was little danger of fire to damage him.

The people in the camp stared at him with their eyes wide. They would have looked like soldiers, some of them, given their armour, but surely the authorities of Cyrodiil were not stupid enough to collect all of their soldiers in one location while facing an invasion that could occur anywhere at any time... Why were they staring? Well, he was a vampire. They probably stared in fear. Maybe they stared in wonderment at the fact that a Blade of all people should bring a vampire to such a large crowd of people. He would dine well here.

"Welcome to Cyrodiil," the Blade muttered as he slid from his horse and finally allowed Reron to do the same. "We are expected at Cloud Ruler Temple," he explained. "Follow me."

The Dunmer's eyes narrowed in suspicion as Baurus made no attempt to force him to follow but rather started up a large hill to what appeared to be a fort at the top. Why did they need him? He _did_ shadow the Blade, if only out of intense curiosity to find out what he had been brought here for. It was not as if some random soldier had stumbled along and decided to take him back to the fort, no, he was , which showed him quite clearly that he had been not found but collected. Somebody here wanted him personally.

And nobody he could think of immediately sprung to mind.

The fort was big, bigger than what Reron found himself used to, but it had a smaller garrison than the forts in Morrowind and so felt... emptier. He had seen a Blade or two in amongst the people in the camp, which led him to believe that they were simply there to keep the peace or to inform people of the orders coming from the very top rung of jurisdiction which, he supposed, lived in this place.

It was in trailing up a set of large stone steps that the Dark Elf realised his feet were bare. How he had not noticed when walking through the snow he scarcely knew, but it almost made him feel unworthy to be in this place with armoured Blades staring at him from all directions. The blue skin of his feet was almost black with dirt and ash, and likewise with the hem of his torn sack trousers with their jagged, tattered legs spattered with mud and ash and blood. His red eyes burned as he was led into the Great Hall and sat at a table across from a large open fireplace as Baurus left to report the success of his mission, he said.

The room itself was huge with a high ceiling, and katanas hung from above on dedicated plaques bearing names of fallen Blades, he assumed. Some were dented and worn and looked as though their owners had seen many of a battle, while others were new and fresh as though people had been killed on their very first mission. The tables were large and clunky and wooden, and the benches were long and it just screamed an air of the military at him as he took in the sights.

In front of the fire he could make out the shape of an Argonian who didn't seem to be in the Blades get-up at all, which suggested he wasn't actually one of them. Upon seeing the Dunmer looking at him, the Argonian rose and crossed the room to where Reron was sitting.

"Reron Mortha?" he asked, sitting on the opposite bench. He had green scales, but most of his features were hidden by the black leather armour and hood that he wore.

The Dark Elf in question had absolutely no idea who this Argonian was, but the lizard seemed to know him, which was odd. Perhaps whoever had summoned him here had warned the residents to be expecting him. "Indeed. Who are you?" he demanded. His voice wasn't quite as coarse as it had been when he had first awoken in the sunlight, but it still had a rough edge to it. He did feel safer out of the light though.

"My name is Turner. I..." he trailed off and looked around the room before thinking better of what he had been going to say and keeping his mouth shut. "Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple, Reron." He rose and stepped away from the table, striding back towards the fire as somewhere behind him a door opened and a figure slunk inside.

"Reron!" the newcomer exclaimed, something of a mixture between shock and relief. The voice was familiar, but he could barely tell anything about them except that they were female and knew his name, though it seemed that everybody here did.

He was surprised as the woman ran across the room and hugged him, pushing her away and bearing his teeth. He could barely tell a thing about her, given the leather armour that covered her face in a similar way to that of the Argonian. "I don't know who you are," he spat, shoving her again so that she got the message. She might have been a fellow Dunmer, but right now he could barely tell.

Without thinking, the woman reached up and pushed her hood back to reveal her face. He recognised her now... "It's me Reron," she whispered as brown hair fell over her eyes. The way she pushed it back showed she was not used to it.

"Idari..." So that was why he was here? He should have known. "Why have you brought me here?"

His sister did a double take at his words and very nearly took a step away; in his peripheral vision he saw that that Argonian was drawing closer again and seemed concerned. Concerned for his sister? What sort of sick relationship did they have? "Reron... You... You said..." she stuttered. She seemed vulnerable, though judging by the amount of weapons she had on her person she was anything but. He had not laid eyes upon her in almost a year and she seemed different, harder, faster, stronger, and the people in the room seemed almost scared of her and shocked that she had removed her hood. "You said you would find a cure and come home."

"There is no such thing as a cure for vampirism," he stated gravely, glaring at his sister for a moment. What was she doing in Cyrodiil anyway?

She shook her head. "No, but Reron... You... You're cured!" she exclaimed happily. "Turner found a cure!"

The Dunmer merely stared at her blankly. Cures for vampirism were impossible, but he had noticed that he could no longer smell their blood and no longer hear their beating hearts. "You..." he struggled to find words to convey his thoughts. He inhaled and shook his head, trying to search for the right phrases to tell her exactly how he felt about this fact, his fists clenching and unclenching as his breaths grew more erratic. "You idiot," he growled, causing his sister to gasp and the Argonian to step even closer in case anything might happen.

"Reron, I don't understand..." Yes, she was vulnerable now. Vulnerable and confused. "You said... You said..."

"Idari, that was a year ago," he growled, rising to his feet. He was considerably taller than his sister, and even strong as she was he knew she would never fight him. "I was happy in Druscashti," he whispered as he emitted a guttural sound that would have done him well if he were still a vampire. Blades were watching now, shocked at the unfolding events. "Why did you bring me here?" She backed up as he stepped towards her, though whether it was out of fear was heard to tell. Maybe out of disbelief.

"Reron, I cannot leave. Have you heard of the Oblivion Crisis?"

Her brother did not wish to listen to her explanation."You could have left me be!" he exploded, angrily swiping a jug that had been on the table to the ground. Rage bubbled inside of him now that his confusion was replaced; he did not want to be in Cyrodiil and he did not want to be a mortal again. "You _stupid_ fool! Did you think I would be the same as I was when I left? No, Idari, you thought only of yourself in bringing me here."

The Argonian was right next to her now and placed a supportive hand on her arm, something which caused her to jump and pull away but stop backing herself across the room. "But Reron, you _said_ that you would find a cure and come back!"

"Perhaps the fact that I never did should have showed you that I did not want to leave," Reron snapped violently. He did not have a weapon on his person, but right now he was so annoyed that he almost wished he did. "I had a life in Druscashti, and friends, and even love!" He had never expected that he would find happiness in a hive of vampires, but somehow he had managed it once they had accepted him as their kin. "I never wanted to be mortal again, and now I cannot go back again... You selfish little... brat."

Idari's breathing grew heavier and her fists clenched tightly, but for a few moments she said absolutely nothing. Finally she flew off the handle. "No, Reron. You're the one who was being selfish! You left me! You left me with _them_! Father didn't even know he had a daughter, and the only thing on mother's agenda was to marry me off and get rid of me! You left me behind to live your life as a bloody vampire, and I waited and waited for you to come back and you never did! In the end I had to leave home, leave Morrowind, and all because of you!"

The apparent ex-vampire glowered at her. "That happened in the past, Idari, and you know it. I don't know what you're complaining about; you left! Just because father was as mad as Sheogorath doesn't mean that he didn't know you existed! And look at you! You turned out alright without me. You didn't _need_ me and you don't now, and thanks to you I now have nowhere left to go!"

"Reron, everything I've done I've done for you! I only came to Cyrodiil in order to look for a cure for you! I wouldn't be here, I wouldn't be stuck here, if it weren't for you, Reron!"

"What does my disappearance have to do with your being stuck here?" the Dunmer growled, the sound ripping from his throat as he leant closer to his sister but she stood her ground.

Idari was about to snap something in reply before the Argonian spoke over her, causing Reron to tilt his head in confusion. "Your sister is a hero," he announced, ignoring the glare she sent at him. The ex-vampire noted that she didn't complain though, as if she wished her brother to find out but not quite like this. Unusual for her... "She's saved hundreds of lives, thousands even. Perhaps you heard news on Vvardenfell of the Hero of Kvatch? Somebody who the Emperor Uriel Septim saw in his dreams and who went on to liberate Kvatch... Perhaps you heard of a hero who saved cities from a similar fate?" He paused to glance pointedly at the man's sister. "You've been hearing of your relative's plight."

Reron snorted in disbelief; she was most definitely not hero material. "I'm leaving," he announced, turning on his heel and starting towards the door.

"Stay for the battle," that Argonian snapped at him quickly. Who was that _slave _to tell _him_ what to do? "The fate of the whole of Tamriel depends on it."

The male Dark Elf closed his eyes to think. "Very well," he said gravely, his voice low and quiet. "I will stay, but not for Idari," he grimaced, snapping teeth that had once been fangs towards her to show his disapproval of her. "When it is over I am returning to Vvardenfell and nobody will try to stop me. Are we agreed?"

Seeing little choice, the would-be Hero nodded. "Yes, brother," she whispered. She sounded sad, but somehow Reron couldn't bring himself to care. "Knowing you are alive is at least better than the complete ignorance I had to satisfy myself with before."

* * *

_Author Note: I am perfectly aware that this took way too long, and I apologise unreservedly for the three week wait. I blame writers' block, and I could blame other things, but that would be stupid. Except the fact that I've been working for the first time ever. Does tend to deplete one's free time. How did you like the only chapter to contain NONE of my usual POVs?_

_OK, I said in 45 I would tell who had won my competition. **Nachtrae** guessed, and **DualKatanas** seems to have found out... Whether he guessed or I told him escapes my memory. However, I dedicate this chapter to **Lunatic Pandora1 **and **cola1806** who, despite being among my most reliable of reviewers, have never received my praise. Even though cola has vanished from the face of the earth... :( Also to **nachosforever** - again - for the numerous reviews and for the massive help at getting me inspired to write this damned thing. Points for their help also go to **DualKatanas** and **Commentaholic**, because they're both legends. So there. XD_

_46 is the Battle of Bruma. We've only been waiting the entire story for this moment. Reviews encourage me to write faster :P Love y'all_

_~ARTY~_


	46. The Defence of Bruma

_Quote: __**What we do in life echoes in eternity –**__ General Maximus Decimus Meridius - Gladiator_

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_Chapter 46_

Darkness still reigned over Bruma when the whole area began to bustle with activity. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers awoke and prodded their neighbours before donning their armour and eating what for many would be their last meals – a humble mutton stew was sufficient for a large proportion of them. Despite the ever-present sense of utter foreboding, morale in the camp seemed unusually high; most of the soldiers here were prepared to die, and ready to die for their cause and for their realm. They had arrived in the Jerall Mountains days or weeks or months ago – a select few had even arrived hours ago. And now, finally, they were ready to fight this menace that had the power to touch every life in every province simultaneously.

They congregated at the battleground. Battlemages. Soldiers. Blades. One and all gathered here from the righteous Knights of the Nine to the sinful Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, her most – and only - trusted Speaker in tow. Ex-vampires and City Watchmen, guildsmen and freelance fighters, men and women, young and old, every race under the sun... As they accumulated it became exceedingly obvious that, while they were highly diverse in their strengths, they were not in a vast quantity. And it was numbers that they desperately needed to fight the infinite army they stood against.

The main body of the troops were arranged to the east, led by Jauffre and Steffan in two large units; lines of cavalry behind rows of swordsmen and other fighters. To the rear of the battlefield stood bowmen and spell-slingers, positioned high up on the valley sides so that they might get a good shot at the emergent daedra, the command offered to the ex-Arch-Mage who had served his guild for little less than a week. Odd that they should grant prowess to such a man, though perhaps news had travelled forth of his besting the infamous necromancer Mannimarco.

In the west waited the reserve battalion, Baurus stood at their point in recognition of his great services to Uriel Septim and now to Martin Septim. A handful of swordsmen clustered above the battlefield, ready to rush down to wherever they were needed, if indeed they managed to make it that far.

They waited with their bows strung and swords sharpened as the silence spread like a disease, infecting every nook and cranny of this place until even the roaring mountain wind grew as quiet as the lost souls that filled this space. Just over a thousand of them waited in their five small units; barely enough to tackle one gate, let alone the numerous they were expecting.

That was until the ginger woman with mismatched eyes and a queer amber cuirass started laughing.

It was to the great displeasure of Grandmaster Jauffre that the woman waved her staff about like a madwoman and proclaimed in a peculiar string of rhymes that she had brought the daedric commanders that accompanied her on her journey for a reason. It was with even greater displeasure and a resounding expression of shock that a swish of her pale hands caused thousands of golden and charcoal-grey beings to appear among the masses of soldiers, armed and ready to fight. _Daedra_, she told them, rolling up the sleeves of her tattered green coat so that they did not obscure her fingers from view as they curled around the strange wooden staff she was clasping in her hand and digging her obviously too large leather boots into the snow so that she left footprint shaped voids when she moved. Perhaps she had saved them from disaster, but the fact remained that even accompanied by her modest army of two thousand, the men and women who fought for the fate of Nirn had scarce enough soldiers to make even the smallest of dents in Dagon's otherworldly crowd.

Clearly the other soldiers had no idea what to make of the daedra fighting alongside them. They had had it drilled into them from the very start that they were to be fighting daedra, killing daedra, hating daedra, and now that they had some of those who were made out to be the most hideous of enemies on their side it seemed as though everything they had been told was wrong. However a select few with more open minds than most had welcomed the help as they would any other; did it truly matter who they had on their side so long as they _had_ beings on their side who were loyal to their noble cause?

At the first signs of light a single man stepped forwards, only to be flanked immediately by two Blades. He wore golden armour that seemed to glimmer in spite of the darkness, a helmet carried under his arm to grant him further visibility before the battle began; his hair was long and fell to his shoulders, almost like... The soldiers brushed off their thoughts that this man bore an uncanny resemblance to their late Emperor; they all knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the last of Uriel Septim's heirs had died on 27th Last Seed as he had himself. Those who stood close enough could make out the abnormal blue colour of his knowledgeable eyes and the intricate patterns wrought in the breastplate that looked older than the man himself; they could sense the nobility in his blood, feel the magic pumping through his veins. But he couldn't possibly be a Septim... Could he?

"Soldiers of Cyrodiil," the man addressed them. There was authority in his voice, but it was clear by his tone that he was generally more wont to sermonising smaller crowds than the three and a half thousand he hailed now. "What we will do here today determines whether the Empire stands or falls. Will we allow to happen to Bruma what happened to Kvatch?" He paused as the lone pair of Kvatch soldiers yelled something unintelligible to the masses; either way, they seemed to recognise this man even if nobody else did. "Will we allow them to once more burn our homes and kill our families? No! We stand here today not only for ourselves but for the whole of Cyrodiil. We must hold this place until the Hero of Kvatch can close the Great Gate and we must kill whatever hideous beings emerge from within lest we allow our world to fall. Soldiers of Cyrodiil, do you understand me?"

A vociferation erupted from the crowds which the man took as good grace to return to his position within the ranks, the Blades closing in around him in order to protect him; was he to be the leader of this great army? The soldiers of Cyrodiil did not know, were not aware of his identity, his significance, his lineage. As the shouts and the clanging of metal died down again a small woman in black leather armour was pushed forwards; a few recognised _this_ woman as someone they had arrested in the past, someone they had seen in the street or mistaken for a shadow in the darkness – was _she_ the fabled Hero of Kvatch? She didn't _look_ much like a hero – or act like one - but there was no determinate template for a heroic soul to follow; even the most unlikely of craven weaklings could emerge as a saviour given the right circumstances.

She surveyed the masses with her eyes narrowed dismissively before shaking her head and striding off, much to the apparent annoyance of those higher-ups in the Blades who attempted to follow her until the apparently important man raised a hand and gestured for them to stop. She knew was she was doing – or that was what it looked like; it did well to trust one's hero. As she made her way between the crowds of people soldiers stepped aside the let her pass, a curious silence holding them captivated on her every movement until she slipped into the ranks of the furthest battalion – comprised largely of archers and spellcasters – and drew forth a single Argonian who seemed as ill-prepared for this action of hers as the men around him. She led him the the front of the army solemnly, whereupon she pushed him alone into her place to make for her her speech to the masses

He froze up briefly – though to his credit he never faltered - prompting her to step forward and apparently growl something into his ear before returning to her preplanned position in the foremost section of the minuscule army. Finally, he spoke: "_Soldiers of Cyrodiil!_" He began in the same way that the man in golden armour had, but his words lacked the same authoritative qualities; despite this his words seemed to hold their attentions, though more as though he were a village bard than a soldier. "The Hero of Kvatch has asked me to speak to you at her behest; I do not pretend to be of any more importance to this cause than any others, but know this: I have seen Oblivion and the horrors is presents, and I have felt the sharp end of a blade passing through my flesh. Perhaps it is these reasons that the Hero of Kvatch sees me as a fitting person to speak to you; I know not. We _cannot_ allow Bruma to fall; the daedra we will face are unrelenting and will not fear death, and while still immortal they are creatures of flesh and blood that can be killed as easily as you or I. We _must_ hold them off, for the Empire, for Cyrodiil, and most importantly for our Emperor!" He paused as the people started asking the inevitable questions – who was the Emperor? Why hadn't they heard of him? How had he survived the assassinations? "Yes, it is true that the Emperor had a fourth heir," the Argonian explained, causing the questions to die down a little in their volume and frequency as his golden eyes glistened with what some people could only claim to be the stark reality of hope. "And today we will fight for Martin Septim! We will not let the people of Kvatch die in vain! We may be few in number, but we will certainly show Mehrunes Dagon that he should have thought twice about invading Nirn with us around!"

"For Kvatch!" a soldier in the crowd yelled, sword raised into the air in a symbol of defiance, and as the entire battlefield broke out into similar cries of rebellion the mystery Argonian melted back into it and his own preferred state of anonymity. A select few recognised him: the Heir of Cheydinhal and his trusty Knights of the Thorn who had once travelled through an Oblivion gate with him, an Altmer who had been Arch-Mage for less than a week before giving up the title in order to reach the battle and counted the Argonian in the pitifully low number of his friends, a Watch Sergeant from Cheydinhal who had once saved the man's life from two Mythic Dawn agents, an ex-vampire from Morrowind who was here because he simply had nowhere else left to go. But it was nothing really; history would never remember his part in all this.

The army was silenced quite suddenly as the ground began to quake unnaturally and those at the very front stepped backwards onto the toes of the soldiers stood behind them. The audacity of the people was dashed as fear overtook them and they scrambled to find their weapons; they were ready – of course they were _ready_ – but in facing the unexpected all they could feel was pure terror. Without warning two obsidian columns erupted from the ground, spraying rubble across the troops and vaporising the snow they came into contact with. Fire swirled between them, spitting flames onto the frozen trees nearby which promptly provided kindling for a blaze that spat in the faces of men and women who could do nothing besides hold their ground as the portal stabilised, and wait anxiously for the first sign of life emerging from it.

The first creatures to step forth were scamps, curious little beings with long pointed ears and unnaturally stretched bony fingers and feet, thin rat-like tails and large fangs in place of their lower canine teeth. They shrieked as they ran forward and glowed purple with magicka that they were prepared to unleash on the mortals before they were skewered, fried, shot, smashed; they didn't last long as their haphazard ranks were scythed through by the soldiers with very few casualties save the unfortunate soul who fell foul to an errant fireball that hit him square in the chest and ended his pitifully short life.

But they kept coming.

For every nine they killed another ten would emerge a few minutes later, and it seemed as though they were learning as they went; while the first few fell victim to a volley of arrows the others seemed to have realised that they ought to have been dodging the projectiles and so seemed to have more luck in doing so – though it did not make them any more difficult to kill, it just took longer, and in that time yet more had emerged.

_Strange though_, Septimus Serocold decided as his section remained poised for battle. He was as far west on the battlefield as one could be without becoming one of the reserve battalion, who while looking equally ready were obviously not as efficient with their blades as those who had made the main company. The Cheydinhal guardsman had to wonder why they were only sending scamps through this gate, a fact that perplexed him greatly until the earth started shaking beneath his feet again and almost immediately a hail of stronger daedra were propelled through the first gate. The daedroths roared as they emerged, reptilian teeth gnashing as they found their feet on Nirn and claws poised to tear through the armour of the soldiers like paper. Their skin was tougher than the scamps and most of the arrows shot at them bounced off simply without causing damage as they barrelled into the front ranks of the right hand sections who were forced to break formation in order to deal with the threats individually.

Screams of the dying filled Septimus' ears as two more obsidian columns erupted from the ground right next to the first gate, chunks of rubble and a single unfortunate scamp being thrown some thirty feet into the air before crashing heavily to the ground. He found himself losing track of which daedra were emerging from which gate as he broke rank to aid the fighters who were being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of clannfear that were pouring free of the fiery Wastes of Oblivion. Few people in his section followed his lead, save for a tall woman from the Leyawiin Guard who he knew to be named Augusta and who had clearly seen little action in her time judging by the way she wielded that sword in her hand.

He jumped over a corpse so burnt that it could barely be distinguished as to which side they had represented in life to face down a clannfear that was in the process of eviscerating an unfortunate Blade who had underestimated that powerful beak and those razor-sharp talons. The creature barely looked wounded, so the chances were that the blood covering it was not its own. It circled the Imperial ravenously, seeking its next mortal meal with death in its small golden eyes; finally after growing impatient the daedra sprinted forwards with shocking amounts of speed, leaving Septimus scarcely enough time to step aside and drive his iron blade through the being's spinal cord until it dropped down lifeless.

Around him time was moving so quickly, but the Watch Sergeant allowed himself to see the world slowly, something which ultimately saved his life as a blade missed him by little more than an inch.

Spinning on the spot Septimus attempted to take stock of the creature that was trying to kill him right now, but it was unlike anything he had ever seen before. It was a tall humanoid daedra with large foreboding antlers and a lower half that looked surprisingly like that of a deer, tough brown skin stained with the blood of many innocents and small hooves that it balanced on as easily as it would had it had feet. The weapon it wielded was long and gnarled and almost resembled a blade, coated in sanguine fluid from end to end and dripping sinisterly as the being aimed it powerfully at the guardsman's face. Unlike a blade it flexed as it swung to act rather like a mace-head on a sharpened pivot, catching the Imperial off guard so that the curious weapon collided with the cheek-guard of his helmet and tore the protection from his head, sending it clattering across the ground; it was indeed fortunate that he had not lost his skull with it. The gash that had been left in his cheek seeped blood readily over his face, staining his tabard black as he ducked under the second swing and brought his own sword towards the creature's midriff only to have his attack batted away as one would a fly.

Growling, Septimus tried again to similar ends, having to hop backwards over a corpse in order to avoid the counter blow he received for his efforts. Around him the world stood so still that only he and his opponent existed despite all the carnage he knew to be occurring only a few feet in every direction. He phased them all out so that he might focus his efforts, ignoring the fact that nearby daedra could run up and slaughter him where he stood, barely noticing that the earth beneath his feet was moving for a third time.

Either he was growing tired or this creature was growing stronger, because every one of his blows seemed to be gaining less ground on the daedra while he was coming closer and closer to having his face smashed in brutally. He prayed for relief, thanking the Nine for allowing him to see the battle he had so craved to be a part of as he resorted to diving to the ground and rolling in order to avoid this latest volley of attacks. Rubble raining down on him like droplets of water as unbeknownst to the Imperial a third small Oblivion gate opened up less than ten metres from the reserve unit, taking them all drastically off-guard as things that looked astonishingly like armoured daedroths emerged quickly followed by green-scaled eyeless nightmares that shrieked unintelligibly as they slashed their hideous talons at the unsuspecting soldiers.

Serocold grunted as he rose back to his feet seconds before that bladed mace sunk into the ground where he had been a few moments before, spinning to face the beast once more only to see its body coursing with electricity. It staggered forwards a couple of steps, dropping its weapon as a hefty claymore beheaded the being completely, spraying acidic daedric blood across Septimus' face and cuirass and spotting his torn green and brown surcoat with eerie flecks of red.

"Watch yerself Imperial," the female Orc warned him, hitting him with a healing spell to stop the bleeding from the large cut on his cheek before he weakened from loss of blood.

The guardsman nodded, swinging his sword to test that he still had the strength to fight. Apparently satisfied, he muttered his thanks before tearing off in the direction of the third gate in order to provide some aid there which was sorely needed judging by the number of corpses he could see amassing from this position. He had always wanted to see a big battle and make Dagon pay, but he had never quite envisaged it happening as bloodily as this. He had killed before, yes, but he was not sure he was ready to face such a vast number of foes; and he knew in his heart of hearts that the battle was only to grow more perilous with time.

xxx

The third gate opening spelt trouble for the Blades and they knew it. While they had acquired information about the day of the attack from the Mythic Dawn spies they had captured a while ago, they had never managed to extract details about the scale of the onslaught except that it would be unlike anything they had ever seen before. Kvatch was little more than practice compared to this.

Grandmaster Jauffre barked instructions to his underlings to get them to protect the Emperor or to stay back or to attempt an assault of their own. They were a force to be reckoned with, but they could not cope with the constant battery of the daedra over and over, even with the Mazken and the Aureals being replenished in number periodically as their leader saw fit to summon more. At this rate, Jena Artoria feared that the only soldiers they would have left on their side would be daedric.

Jena watched as all around her gallant men and women were falling to die painfully on the scorched ground, their blood mingling without prejudice into that of the fallen daedra they were fighting. And the Great Gate had not even opened yet.

Though the Blades strove to stay close to Martin and to protect their Emperor – or at least the man who would soon be their Emperor – they seemed to find that he was having no trouble protecting himself with magic he must have picked up at some stage during his life. Jauffre had attempted to train him in combat, but with his time taken up so largely with translating the Mysterium Xarxes it had proven difficult to find an opening for anything more than the most basic of swordsmanship; then all the Breton had been able to do was attempt to dissuade the Heir from joining the battle, but to no avail.

The Imperial contemplated her future as she smashed a scamp in the face with her shield to the sound of a sickening squelch followed by a scream as she followed the action through with her sword, ending the puny thing's time on Nirn for what was probably the twentieth time so far today. The opposition were undeniably getting stronger though, and it appeared as if they were building up to something bigger as low ranking Dremora spewed from the portals leaving death in their wake until they finally fell to a well placed blow. Atronachs ran wild, spreading terror and fire to the four winds. It was the storm atronachs that the soldiers often found difficult to fell, having to rely almost exclusively on the ever dwindling numbers of battlemages present to even get near to them without being struck with powerful jolts of electricity.

Spinning on the spot, Jena found herself face to face with what she would honestly wager to be the strangest creature she had ever seen in terms of its bizarre appearance. In front of her stood a daedra some six and a half feet tall, hoofed feet on the end of legs covered in golden scales melting into a barbed golden tail and upwards into a scaled humanoid torso, deadly obsidian spikes protruding from its shoulders and curving inwards to point at its hideous face. Four bony spurs stuck from its chin and long pointed ears sat just beneath large curved horns; more spikes completed the ensemble, embedded in its forehead and across its skull right down to its slitted golden eyes. Fear took hold of the Blade as she stared at it with wide eyes, noticing now that she seemed to be alone to fight it, singled out from a crowd who were currently simultaneously attacking a powerful Dremora mage and a huge green being with claws for fingers and no eyes to speak of that looked almost reptilian in appearance until one looked more closely and saw that they were most definitely a daedra.

Jena sought to recall her training as the _thing_ was obviously taking stock of her as well. It looked like something that would be controlled by Hircine, perhaps, and yet here it was aiding Mehrunes Dagon in his capture of Nirn, though the daedra were free to serve whomever they so chose; most people knew that. She needed to keep calm, keep vigilant, a tough thing to do when one was surrounded by death on all sides, walking on the corpses of those who had once been her friends and wishing – _hoping_ – that she would make it out of this alive.

She was not going to hold her breath on that matter.

Without warning, the golden beast charged at her, afforded surprising swiftness by its long muscular legs. For a split second, Jena found herself unsure of how to react, simply bracing herself behind her shield bare moments before the daedra barrelled into her, throwing her backwards several feet as it reared its grotesque head. She landed among seared remains of unknown origins, denting her armour at the impact with the solid ground beneath; she felt the air forced out of her lungs as she attempted to right herself onto her feet and took a momentary glance at her now decimated shield. The aureate creature seemed preoccupied now with goring the body of an unfortunate City Watch soldier who screamed in both pain and terror with its large curved horns, bodily fluids splashing across the area surrounding it indiscriminately. Jena tried to block the heart-wrenching sound from her ears if only for her own sanity.

The Blade couldn't fail to observe that the now misshapen armour she wore was restricting her movement somewhat, and she threw away what was in effect a now ineffectual shield without a seconds further thought on the matter. She accepted she was almost inescapably going to die now; she couldn't expect to survive with limited motility, no shield and broken armour that prevented her from moving, but she was not prepared to give up. Not when her Emperor still needed protection.

She gripped the hilt of her sword tightly in her left hand, loosening the straps holding her cuirass in place to allow herself room to breathe without too much pain or effort during what she expected would be her last few hours in this world before she found her way swiftly to Aetherius. Dashing into the fray, she found herself facing up against a clannfear with an arrow fletched with green feathers stuck deeply in its thigh; Jena was sure she would have recognised that arrow anywhere, especially after its owner had saved her life from a rampant zombie once. Despite its injury, this daedra still appeared a force to be reckoned with, its beak and short, sharp talons dripping with the blood of its former ill-omened victim as another arrow ricocheted off its bony crest and clattered harmlessly to the ground.

Without looking around to locate the bow-slinging Argonian, Jena dived at the creature, slashing her katana at it with as much force as she could summon given her constricted movement. The damage caused by the sword was negligible as the clannfear merely leapt backwards, agile even while maimed. The beast charged forwards, and a split second hesitation from the Blade saw a razor-sharp claw make contact with and split open her armour.

Pain ripped through her stomach as her skin was torn with startling ease, blood pouring from the wound as she could do little more than attempt to prevent the dark sausages that made up her intestines spewing forth onto the ground. The daedra moved in hungrily, making an odd chattering sound with its savage beak as it circled her. Never prepared to give up, Jena swung again at the clannfear, catching it heavily just below its neck, her blade sinking through the flesh until it impacted bone; without a second thought she whipped her sword around, slicing the monster's throat open and ending up doused in its blood for her own troubles before it fell while gargling on its own scarlet drink.

Jena dropped her katana, clutching the lesion to her abdomen. It was a deep cut which travelled all the way from just above her hip towards her opposite shoulder, leaving her in danger of losing the majority of her innards if she moved too quickly and sealing her death sentence with a signature written in her blood. But she did not mind; she had done her bit for her Emperor now and she would rest easily in Aetherius in that knowledge.

Her life fluid seeped out steadily, coating her hands, arms, legs, and she looked around hopefully for a daedra that could end her suffering more quickly so that she might die in battle rather than alone on a battlefield in a pool of her own blood, or maybe a mage to heal her wound – though she wasn't so sure she wished to be healed now. She felt herself growing weaker as the effects of exsanguination took hold and her knees grew shakier as she fought to stay on her feet, blinking unconscious tears of pain from her eyes as the ground beneath her quaked for a fourth time before hastening up to meet her.

Judging by the larger size of the tremors, she was sure that this one would be the Great Gate, the thing that they had been waiting for all this time and the main reason for their congregation here today. It was oddly pleasing to her to know she would survive at least until the Great Gate would open and the Hero of Kvatch would step up to her duty as she had so many times in the past. Grandmaster Jauffre may have been sceptical as to where her loyalties lay, but Jena was sure that her heart was in the right place, even if she went about her business in the complete wrong way and treated the rest of Nirn like dirt on her skin-tight leather shoe; the Blade couldn't quite think of a person who had risen as sharply in her expectations as the Hero of Kvatch had, and she liked to think that the future was in capable hands with that woman around.

From her position on the ashen ground, her bleary brown eyes searched as far as they were able for the fourth Oblivion gate, pleading with the Nine that she might live to see it open before They took her to Aetherius in Their loving arms. She felt rough hands touch her shoulder and roll her onto her back, blood amassing in her throat and constricting her airways before she retched it over a filthy black leather foot.

"_Jena_," the owner of the foot whispered, sounding a million miles from her and yet so close she could almost smell the blood upon him. What was his name? She had known before, but the pain was clouding her brain as she choked on yet more of her own fluid.

The Blade waved the man away with an arm that would not move. _Go fight for Martin_, she urged him with words she could not bring her lips to form, scanning the horizon with eyes that were all but blinded by blood and ash. _My life is done; fight for someone with a chance._

"_The Nine watch over you, Jena_," the man whispered again, so close and yet so far. She saw the outline of the figure stoop down and pick up her katana; _Take it_, she spoke to him voicelessly as he looked at her – or at least she presumed to think he looked, as she could scarcely make out his shape against the fiery red sky punctuated with angry black clouds when he was garbed from head to toe in black himself. _You would make a fine Blade; my sword is yours now_.

The shadows smothered her readily.

xxx

"This is all Idari's doing," Reron Mortha muttered under his breath as the fourth gate to the hellish Wastes of Oblivion opened in front of him. His sword was stained with blood and the armour he had borrowed from that oaf of a Blade who had brought him here fit him about as well a sheep would fit into a pack of wolves.

This gate was huge. It was almost a half mile across and about as high, spreading across the middle of the formation now made by the four, slightly in front of the first and second and slightly behind the third. As soon as it had opened he had watched thousands of daedra swarm from it like ants from an anthill, tearing through the mortals with their daedric blades as easily as a katana might cut through a wedge of soft cheese.

Reron had resolved to keep well to the flanks of this battle, fighting whatever might chance upon him from his vantage point at the top of the valley. So far there had been little that had made it up this far, and whatever had done had died so quickly that it had hardly been worth the effort. He may have made a conscious effort to distance himself from his family when he was younger, but his lineage was still Telvanni; sorcery came easily to him.

From this viewpoint the Dunmer watched the battle unfold around him. He watched a huge Redguard man in a winged helmet and white surcoat emblazoned with a red diamond disappear in a swirl of purest white when a sword pierced his back; not a drop of the man's blood was spilt from the wound that should have surely been fatal. If Reron didn't know any better, he would have suspected Divine Intervention taking the man to Aetherius unscathed rather than allowing him to die a normal, painful death. But the ex-vampire did not believe in the Nine and their promises.

He watched that mad woman with flowing ginger hair and an oversized green coat run about the battleground with nothing more than a dagger to arm herself and a double-bladed sword swinging at her hip that she had yet to draw. She laughed in the face of the Dremora that stabbed her through the heart and tapped them on the shoulder to have them vanish completely from the battlefield and reappear roughly a minute later, miles up in the air, screaming as they plummeted to the ground and what would inevitably by their most painful death to date. Reron had never seen such magic as this, and found himself glad that she was fighting on the same side as he was, especially as the blades that hit their target did little to her besides cause her amusement. She truly _was_ as unhinged as her reputation dictated.

It was in scanning the valley before him that the Dark Elf found his red eyes locking onto the one person he did not intend to allow himself to watch. His sister had grown stronger since he had last seen her; she was deft with a blade and deadly with her spells and daedra fell at her feet more readily than at the feet of most of the others. He watched her face down a Xivilai single-handedly as she nipped across the mountainside with more speed than he would have previously given her credit for, headed for the gate where she would end all of this. Or at least it would be over for today.

He did not forgive his sister. He did not _intend_ to forgive his sister, even if they both lived to be as old as Divayth Fyr and even if she was named Champion of Cyrodiil for her good and gracious deeds. Reron could see the blackness in her heart even if nobody else could; there was a void left in her soul where the love of one's parents ought to have been. Reron felt the void in his own soul too, but he had not taken it as terribly as his sister had, and while he loved her as any brother should... he could not bring himself to ignore it. She had taken away the life he had built for himself just so that she could try and make herself feel whole again; he could only see her as a selfish brat for that.

But where was he going to stay after this battle was done? He didn't dare stay in Cyrodiil in case Idari attempted to persuade him into forgiving her, and he didn't dare return to Morrowind in case his father was still bent upon turning him into a fully-fledged Telvanni – something that had in the end led to the untimely demise of his elder brother Sadas.

It was with this dilemma weighing upon his heart that he realised that his sister was gone now, and in her place a huge death-machine was lumbering through the portal, immense rotating spikes that would make light work of the walls of Bruma, sharp pincer-like legs that would skewer anything in their path. It was as tall as the Great Gate and twice as formidable, its only weakness being the terribly slow speed at which it advanced. Reron estimated that it would be fully emerged from the gate in less time than it would take Idari to close the thing, and if that happened then the battle would be lost; once it was through, they would be able to do nothing to stop it.

The Dremora before him was a Markynaz. His armour was forged from daedric metal, red and black and flawless from the boots on his feet to the helm that covered his face; he was drenched in blood that was not his own, dripping slowly from the two-handed sword that the daedra was gripping with all his might. Reron's eyes widened as he observed the being, feeling irrefutably uneasy in his borrowed armour and the sword he had plucked from the hands of a dead City Watchman whose blue emblem he could not be expected to tell apart on his way to this place atop the incline.

_Master your fear_. The Quarra vampires he had lived with had been warriors to the last, and while they almost always chose to fight their enemies unarmed they never allowed their fear to show to the fool who thought they might go vampire-hunting. The Dunmer's expression set as he raised his sword to meet the blade of the Dremora, ignoring the soft thud as the metal of his weapon gave way to the stronger daedric longsword and the jolt that ran up his arm as the contact was made that almost caused him to drop it then and there.

He was out of practice, it seemed. Years of killing defenceless peasants for their blood had done little to hone the combat skills that he had worked on all those years in the Fighters Guild when he was just a teenager and a naïve little boy. He missed the second blow by the skin of his teeth, to the extent that he _felt_ the blade whistle past him in its deadly arc from high to low, aiming the cleave his body in two. Reron didn't doubt that a weapon such as that one would have no difficulty in achieving such a feat, and had no intention of testing this theory. He dove away from the third blow, passing over the body of a luckless archer in a desperate attempt that he might not end up the same way, bringing the acquired sword over his face bare moments before it was met by the daedric blade, seeking to sever his head from his shoulders.

The metal bent to the superior sword, screaming as sparks flew from it and the weapon snapped in two. Still lying on the floor, Reron had no choice but to roll from the Dremora, his frantic kicks at the daedra's shin not even so much as staggering his foe. He leapt to his feet instants before he lost his head again, the armour that fit him so poorly clanging in distaste towards the motion as he found his balance. The Dunmer noted he was alone atop this section of the ridge now, the archers and battlemages dead or descended the hill to take the battle to Dagon; he alone persevered, recalling his history as a Telvanni to throw a spell at the Dremora.

Fate, it seemed, disliked this particular ex-vampire. His magic did nothing.

Reron Mortha had promised himself long ago that if he were ever to be returned to a mortal state he would never look back on his time as a vampire and long to go back. Hindsight would grant him the ability to see the mistakes that he would have made, and conscience would show to him the faces of all those innocents that he had drained of their life's blood, but he would never wish to return to Druscashti. He broke that promise. From the moment he had woken up in Cyrodiil he had wanted nothing less than to be a vampire again, feared by the common man, but powerful, _so_ powerful. As a vampire he could move faster than any living being, he was strong enough to crush a man's skull in the palm of his hand, and the weapons of those _normal_ men could not harm him in the slightest. He had grown used to vampirism during his time there, and come to accept it as a fact of his life; his sister had put an end to that, and with it his happiness and invulnerability.

Stooping down to remove the blade of a fallen comrade, the Dark Elf met the Dremora's blow with nothing more than an iron dagger, twisting it with all his strength as the ashen-faced man laughed at how pathetic he was. He felt the sting of pain as the edge of the daedric sword made contact with his elbow with an ungainly _crunch_; supposedly he should have felt glad that the blade was not sharpened, for he would have just as easily lost his arm, but a broken sword-arm spelt death on this field and he knew it.

He barely registered he was falling until his head made contact with the ground. The Dremora had thrown him off balance, tipped him over down the slope so that he fell head over foot, foot over head, down the side of the valley, over corpses and their weapons and their spiked shields. When he came to rest among them he was more broken than before, his shoulder was pierced on the sword of a corpse he found himself sprawled out upon, pinning him to the ground, and his left leg had no feeling to it; when he looked, he saw it had been snapped to an unnatural angle, as easily as one might break a toothpick between two fingers. He choked on a healing spell that he knew would not be enough, and instead groped about in the ash with his one functioning arm, fingers slick with blood and grimy with dirt as they probed the ground and the corpses around until he a stab of pain in the palm of his hand.

Scrabbling further, his limb now covered in fresh blood pouring from a new wound, his digits found purchase on the handle of a dagger that had like as not belonged to the owner of the sword he now found himself impaled upon. He scoured all that he could see for view of the Dremora that had out him here, pain lancing through his broken arm, his broken leg, his sliced hand, his pinned shoulder. He dropped the dagger again; it would not help him now.

"_Kill me here!_" he roared to his unseen opponent, the one who would leave him to die. He swiped at the tears of agony streaming from his burning red eyes with the back of a grubby hand, smearing his face with ash and sweat and blood as he snarled. He knew a spell that would numb the pain, but he did not desire a painless death; he knew a spell that would heal his superficial wounds, but he had no desire to continue living; not for Idari's sake. His sister claimed to need him, but she had survived without him all this time, she had grown to be a hero and a saviour of the masses.

A hero did not need an estranged brother.

Growling, Reron hauled himself off of the sword, ignoring the torturous pain that filled his senses. He would die well, a weapon in his hand; not here, whimpering like a child.

The Dunmer wrenched the blade from the stiff, rigour-bound fingers of the guardsman he had fallen upon, a white surcoat with the face of a black wolf stained red upon the man's chest. He would be honoured in time, but at least now his sword would be put to good use, unlike his staring, unseeing blue eyes that searched the horizons for an answer to his nightmare. Reron gritted his teeth as he attempted to stand, but fell back as his broken leg refused to bear his weight, black spots dancing across his vision as he tried desperately to have his body obey his wills.

He tried again, supporting his weight on the sword and his one intact but bruised leg and managed to reach his feet to look around. His Dremora was gone from the top of the hill, and wherever he might be now Reron knew his chances of vengeance were long gone as he stood alone amidst a plane that was so strewn with bodies one could scarcely catch sight of the ground beneath.

How was he to walk? How was he to fight? It was a cruel irony that the sword had caught him through the shoulder as opposed to through the heart, killing him cleanly. There were no enemies nearby, nothing that he could do. Again, the thought of healing himself came to mind, but again he savagely denied himself that respite. He would die here today, and he would die well among the others, he would not save himself while allowing all those others to die.

They were the last stand, after all.

High above him, the siege machine edged forwards. It seemed larger from down here and more terrifying, and the gate that it was emerging from spewed more daedra at the straggling soldiers. There were still many left, mainly because of that mad woman with the ginger hair and her mismatched eyes bringing forth more daedra; without her all would be lost, for the daedra did not fear death and would oft-times throw themselves upon a blade destined to find the flesh of a mortal.

The man in the golden armour lived still, but his guards were falling at every turn, including their leader, the balding Breton, who had been virtually snapped in two by a great grey Xivilai. Reron could not place the Imperial's importance for all the wisdom of the world. He did not stoop to listening to the words of Argonians, this day or any other.

He barely noticed that his strength was draining from him with every moment he attempted to remain standing, and that more and more of his weight was being supported by the sword that he had stuck in the ground to steady himself. If he were expected to try and use it in a fight, he would surely fall.

He barely noticed that the sky was becoming full of black-clad females with dark grey skin and membranous green wings that unfurled to give them the power of flight. He might have been forgiven for mistaking them for one of the Dark Seducers that he knew served the mad woman who he decided behaved rather a lot like Sheogorath, but he would have been certain of their origins if he had been of right mind.

_Seducers_. Yes, that was what they were. He had studied the daedra extensively when he had still lived in Sadrith Mora with his brother and sister and father and mother, and he would have recognised them, _should_ have recognised them. But right now he would hardly recognise Idari if she stood in front of him shouting out her name

The Seducers swooped in, screeching in daedric words that Reron might have understood, once upon a lifetime ago. He saw them coming and tried feebly to pull his blade from the ground, but pain tore through his arm and he fell. They landed. One. Two. Three. Their wings retracted back into their bodies as the servants of Sheogorath who might have been their daedra equivalent of cousins caught sight of them and attempted to make their assault.

One of the women eyed Reron hungrily as he lay upon the ground, bleeding and just as damaged as before, with a sword clasped in an arm that he was not accustomed to fighting with. She circled, apparently unarmed, her feet naked and the same colour as the ash beneath them, her skirt barely reaching her mid-thigh and her cuirass hardly adequate, exposing her stomach, her arms and a large proportion of her breasts. The Telvanni's sight was failing him as more of those black voids in his vision began to dance their weary death jig. By now his entire body was slick with his blood, reaching him beneath the armour that was not, and never would be, his and coating him from head to foot.

The woman laughed at his attempt to defend himself and batted the blade out of his grasp as one might swat a fly. She sauntered towards him and placed a foot upon his obviously broken leg so that it was all he could do to prevent himself screaming with the agony of it.

_The dagger? Where was the dagger?_

He scrabbled around again. He had not travelled far from the location he had cut his hand on the dagger, the sting of the wound nothing compared to the pain he felt now. He grabbed the hilt of it, and with the last of his strength plunged it deeply into the Seducer's leg, eliciting a shriek unlike anything he had heard in his life as he felt her thick black blood drip over his already stained fingers.

Reron felt his lips curl up into a smile.

This was how he wanted to die.

Fighting.

xxx

The creatures Falicia found herself staring at were honestly getting stranger by the second. The Bosmer readjusted the grip on her dwarven longsword, a blade almost as long as her arm and most certainly twice as heavy, as she faced this latest daedric concoction.

It looked somewhat like what she understood to be called a daedroth: large and reptilian with huge, ferocious jaws and slashing, sharp claws, powerful hind legs for running and a thick tail for balance; but this particular daedroth seemed to have at some stage inherited intelligence enough to equip itself in daedric armour and walked slightly more upright, like the footsoldier of Dagon's army as opposed to a simple wild beast.

Falicia didn't feel fear. She had been fighting in this battle now for what felt like hours; her silver arrows were all lodged in some unfortunate daedra and her elven dagger was stuck fast in the neck of a Dremora, trapped by a gorget that had been of little use when he had fallen to the ground, an arrow in his leg. The daedra seemed to pay little attention to their own safety, and that particular Dremora had not been the first. She had lost her shield when she had used it to crush the windpipe of a Xivilai – it was certainly heavy enough to do the job – and was unable to retrieve it when another had swooped down upon her as she had struggled with the weight. One scamp had all but run onto the end of her sword, and now she was severely beginning to doubt whether there was a single daedra in this province that was worth the time she wasted killing it.

Yet still they kept coming. Over and over she whirled around to face another daedroth, another clannfear, another Dremora. Her armour was holding out, but there was blood trickling down the inside of her left leg where a sliver of the ebony from her greaves had penetrated her skin and left a nasty gash, and her glass cuirass seemed ever closer to shattering with every blow it took.

Now, with only her longsword left, she charged at the curious armoured daedroth with as much ferocity as she could muster. Memories of fallen comrades spurred her on. Most of the blood on her armour was not her own; most of it had come from her fellow fighters, with only a spattering belonging to the daedra that she was fighting. She would avenge them for as long as she had breath in her body.

Hefting her sword in both hands, she brought it down heavily, swearing loudly when it merely glanced off of the reptilian beast's daedric plate. She bore down upon it again as it roared, claws swooping from nowhere to catch her side and throw her off balance. The Guardian recovered as quickly as she was able, barely staggering two steps sideways before launching herself forward again, putting as much of her strength behind the attack as she could muster.

The blade in her hands was already red with blood and already dented in a hundred places, a side-effect of fighting for a living, but this time it came back in her hands with a thin trail of fresh crimson liquid running down its length. Falicia would have smiled, had that action been appropriate at the time.

A deep and horrifying growl ripped from the daedra's throat as it leapt forward, its armour plates clanging loudly as its claws slashed wildly this way and that. It was all the Bosmer could do to avoid them, and a sting of pain to her face and neck alerted her to the fact that she had taken a shallow hit. Without thinking, she whipped the longsword over her head and buried it deeply in the creature's skull with a dull _thud_ as it made contact and a squelch as it sunk further. The daedra fell without a further sound.

Falicia prepared herself to remove the blade from the daedroth's head until she heard a chattering sound. Spinning, she was faced with a clannfear that was covered with ash, but not with blood and was some six feet away from her, braced to jump her.

One second she was standing, trying to wrench her weapon free of a bloody mass and the next she was flat on her back, pinned down by a clannfear that was trying to tear her apart with its beak. She raised her arms to try and protect her face from its savagery, wishing she had acquired some better protection for them during her travels than the pathetic leather bracers she wore now. A failed effort to roll out from under it was all she managed before she felt those sharp teeth clench around her wrist, smashing the bone there with only a fraction of the pressure it could have exerted. Falicia was sure she would have lost her hand if it unleashed its full potential.

The Wood Elf gritted her teeth to deal with the pain. She had broken bones before, and if luck was on her side then this one minor setback would not be her last. She kicked at the clannfear with all her might, squirming beneath it. Why, oh why had she left her dagger behind?

Her cuirass was cracking under the weight of the daedra pressing down upon her chest and crushing the oxygen from her lungs. If it smashed she knew she was done for; the glass would embed itself in her chest unless she was the luckiest little Bosmer to ever saunter their way around Cyrodiil – something she doubted highly.

The clannfear clacked its beak together sinisterly, the sound sending a shiver down the Guardian's spine before suddenly the noise died. Something splashed across her face that Falicia knew was almost definitely blood and she watched in amazement as a sword erupted through the daedra's chest, killing the scream along with the creature.

A few seconds later and she had managed to shift the weight from her body and spring to her feet. Her rescuer was a male Imperial in a tattered Cheydinhal surcoat, barely recognisable beneath the layers of blood and mud that coated it; his helm was missing, but an ominous looking bloodstain on his cheek suggested he had likely lost it in a fight earlier and been healed up by one of the battlemages.

_Lucky for him_, Falicia mused, twisting her broken wrist to see how much use she was going to get out of it now. _What are the chances of my running into a convenient mage now_? Slim, she decided as she called thanks after the guardsman who was already on his way to fight his next enemy.

She surveyed the battlefield. She needed to find a new weapon and fast; she didn't expect that she would be able to lift that longsword of hers in one hand – she could scarcely lift it in two, and try as she may she couldn't quite remember the words to that healing charm she had learnt all those years ago when she still lived in Valenwood.

Expressing her displeasure with an unintelligible grunt, the Wood Elf took off at a run. She was naturally agile, so the piles of corpses building up around her presented no real bother as she lightly skipped over them. Perhaps she could leave the battleground now? Falicia suspected she could run fast enough to escape this carnage and live to fight another day, and she was fairly sure she had seen a few renegade fighters abandon the cause after the third gate had opened. Something was stopping her though... She surmised her conscience wouldn't allow her leave now.

High above her head the siege machine rumbled forwards. When it had first emerged from its fiery keep the Bosmer had been certain that they were done for, but now she realised that it was moving so impossibly slowly that they still had a slim chance of success. If only the Hero of Kvatch would hurry up.

Its thin pointed legs made the ground shake every time they made contact with it and screeching female daedra flocked around it like crows flock to a carcass in search of food. If they ventured this far north, the crows would find themselves amid a veritable feast should they stumble upon this valley in their travels; bodies lay atop bodies of all races, piled high for the world to behold. In time, this whole battle would come to be thought of as a slaughter.

Unexpectedly, the valley began to quake again.

xxx

"_I'm not ready to die yet..._"

"_You'll be fine. You defeated Mannimarco..._"

"_Only thanks to you._"

"_Then keep yer eyes open and watch yer step. This'll be a lot easier than necromancers._"

Well, it was easy for her to say. Seanturco was amazed that he had survived this long without being stabbed, shot, roasted, mauled, trampled, killed. He supposed it was due to the fact that Rush had barely left his side since the beginning of the battle and that he'd remembered to bring a stock of Restore Magicka potions with him.

They probably _were_ easier than necromancers though. Necromancers were more careful with how close they came to the end of a blade than these daedra were, and the Altmer was fairly sure that nothing would ever compare to fighting Mannimarco, even if the cost of losing here was far greater than it had been last time he had seen action.

He could remember warring with the daedra in Skingrad like it was virtually yesterday, now that he was faced with that same foe again. He may not have been a vampire anymore, but the fire still burnt just as hot as it had before. Being mortal didn't exactly make him any less susceptible to death by flames than he had been before.

Shame. Would have been a nifty trick to be able to run through a blaze unscathed...

The Master-Wizard actually found himself feeling rather under-dressed. All of his battlemages – well, he ought not call them _his_ battlemages, given that he had in effect resigned from the position of Arch-Mage, but the term worked well in his current train of thought – were wearing their armour and their enchanted hoods and wielding their huge and powerful weapons. All of the guards were wearing their armour too, complete with surcoat to denote from whence they hailed and whom they followed the orders of. All of the Fighters Guild members were armoured as well, or had been, before a vast number of them were thrown to the four winds by a massive Xivilai that had claimed the life of their Master before they even had a chance to react. Even _Turner_ had his leather armour, however little protection it presented him from his dangerous surroundings.

And what did Seanturco have? A grubby, scorched blue robe tied at the waist by a fraying piece of rope and covered almost universally in _everybody else's_ blood. It was a miracle he still had breath in his body.

The High Elf watched his Orcish companion closely, trying to stay alert to enemies around him as he did so. At first glance one would never know that she was dying. Her blade moved so quickly that sometimes it became little more than a blur, and the magic that danced from her fingertips inevitably struck its target and in most case felled them. She was relentless, she was precise... and Seanturco knew as well as she did that this would be her last battle. If she survived long enough for the Great Gate to be closed it would be a miracle

He had imagined his mind was playing tricks on him when the ground had started shaking again. Did the daedra really need a fifth gate when their siege machine was already trundling overhead? Apparently so. The portal opened far to the east of the battlefield, where a vast proportion of the fighting was still going on, partway up the valley side. It was larger than the first three gates, perhaps twice the size, but it was still dwarfed in comparison to the Great Gate. The daedra that poured from it were intelligent and strong, Dremora and Xivilai by the dozen, Seducers, Atronachs.

The mortal forces were taken completely off-guard by the assault, already struggling to deal with what had run amok from the other four portals, trying to avoid being speared on a leg of that gargantuan siege weapon and tripping over the bodies of their fallen comrades and their large warhorses.

Seanturco would have sighed if an opportunity had presented itself. He looked down the blade of his enchanted sword critically; it was bloodied with the life's blood of the handful of daedra he had felt confident enough to go into close combat with – a scamp or two and a lone clannfear that he had ended up electrocuting in order to defend himself – but it was hardly sufficient in his hands for such a task. He groaned when he saw Rush dashing into the fray but resolved to follow her regardless. He thought he owed her at least that small courtesy.

_Keep yer eyes open_. It proved to be good - if blatantly obvious - advice, allowing him to avoid the arrows being fired by a Dremora standing some hundred metres away beneath the great siege machine and also allowing him to just about twist out of the way of a huge war-axe - wielded by what was simply the largest Xivilai he had ever seen - aimed at the base of his neck. That one had been rather closer than he dared think about, but a bolt of lightning and a convenient Fighters Guild member coming to his aid meant he escaped with all of his limbs intact.

He trailed after his Orcish counterpart relentlessly, avoiding almost every single moment of action that he was able to avoid. His sword _was_ already stained with blood, but Seanturco did not plan to add to the tainting at all, lest the red fluid upon it may end up mingled with his own. It was his own fault though. He _had _insisted upon being here after all.

In truth, he need only have pursued the trail of fresh daedric bodies in order to keep up with Rush. She wasn't super-powered – if she was, she certainly wouldn't be dying – but she knew her way around the bodies of her enemies well enough to know where to place a blow in order to kill them in as few thrusts as possible. The other battlemages should like as not have followed her leadership instead of his.

Seanturco watched her like a hawk might watch its prey, chasing after her closely with his sword clasped in his golden fingers as he marched through mounds of corpses and swamps of blood. It was hard to imagine that little over an hour ago this entire valley had been filled with pure white snow; now all anyone could see was red.

He saw the pain in her face when her breathing became laboured. He supposed that it must be difficult to breathe through lungs that were so decayed they might as well have disintegrated for all the good they did. Rush was exceedingly good at hiding her own discomfort, but now that she was exerting herself in this battle scenario it was all she could do to stop herself coughing and wheezing into a shallow grave amongst these other unfortunate souls. The ex-Arch-Mage wished that there was something, _anything_, he could have done to help her now – it was his fault she was dying after all. If he had only been stronger...

A deafeningly deep rumble filled the air so suddenly that the people who were fighting virtually froze up in shock. The Altmer lost track of how many soldiers fell in those brief milliseconds of noise.

He looked up at the siege machine in horror. Had it got through? Were they all doomed? Was another gate opening?

The other soldiers who weren't still fighting looked as terrified as he imagined he did himself. There were not many of them left – perhaps a meagre two hundred where over a thousand had stood atop these hills before, the newly replenished daedric servants of Sheogorath being ignored in the number count. They wouldn't survive – _couldn't_ survive – another gate, not for all the luck and all the daedra in the world. Martin Septim was still alive thanks to the valour of the Blades who had thrown themselves onto the swords of the enemies in order to protect him, but the situation was looking dire. There weren't all that many Blades left.

The rumbling grew louder and the ground began to quake. In the corner of his eye, Seanturco caught sight of a bloodstained Argonian in black leather armour looking oddly relieved. Though the High Elf had watched the Oblivion gate in Skingrad close he could not remember the experience however hard he tried. He remembered the dash through the fire-blackened ground around the gate. He remembered traversing the city to ask the Count for soldiers. He remembered fighting on the walls of Skingrad. He remembered dodging fireballs and coming so close to death that his papery vampiric skin felt as though it were ablaze already.

But he couldn't remember the gate closing.

Turner wouldn't looked relieved unless that meant that the Hero of Kvatch had made some progress though. Seanturco didn't pretend to be an expert on the Argonian's moods and feelings, but he was sure beyond a doubt that nobody in their right mind would look relieved until the battle was over.

He didn't even notice the Dremora behind him.

So busy had Seanturco been, wrapped up in the sound that had now died away to nothingness, that he didn't even realise how desperately close to death he was.

The Dremora was a sorcerer of sorts. He was dressed in a coarse black robe that he fastened with black rope as thick as Seanturco's wrist. His face was blood red and charcoal black, and there was death in his eyes. He honed in on the distracted ex-vampire like a bee to a honey-pot.

It is often considered the main downfall of the High Elves that they are extremely vulnerable to the elements. They burn. They freeze. They get electrocuted. In a magical duel it is almost a sure-fire way to bring down the tall golden mer with as little fuss as possible before they have a chance to unleash their enhanced magicka supplies upon their opponents.

_This_ Altmer didn't compute the presence of the fireball until it hit him.

When he was sent sprawling more than a few people paid attention. The battlemages he was leading noted it with curses on their lips. The only person he had the pleasure of calling a friend looked horror-struck at the thought of his probable demise. The woman who had once been his bodyguard threw a spell at the Dremora before he had even hit the ground and was running back _over_ the progress she had made to where her ward laying smoking.

He was inhaling the flames that were licking over his body as she extinguished them with conjured ice that melted in an instant and smothered the blaze. He was struggling to breathe through charred lung tissue as she started to cough in response to the thick black smoke pouring from his burnt skin. He was gritting his teeth against the pain searing through his disfigured flesh as chunks of _her_ flesh were being coughed up and thick, congealed black blood was beginning to seep through the rotted skin.

He could scarcely focus on anything as voices began to shout overhead, a horrific crash drowning out all the other sounds as tingling white magicka surrounded him. So Fate had spared him? What of Rush? If he could be healed of the burns then surely she could be healed of the decay to her innards?

It was not to be.

By the time Seanturco had recovered enough from the pain to force himself to sit up, noting the snaking burn patterns running over his skin beneath his blackened and largely ruined blue robe, Rush was closer to death than he had ever seen her before. It was a horrible sight to behold.

Her eyes were distant and shot with red as she lay there in a puddle of darkness, battlemages stood about her like sentinels waiting for her to die. Her green skin was an unhealthy shade of grey and smelt like death and decay, almost like the zombies that they had fought when the pair had been off battling necromancers like there was no tomorrow; it hung from her bones like an ill-fitting tunic, torn in places to reveal rotted flesh and blood like tar. Even in looking at her Seanturco knew that this was his doing; if he had been paying attention and not been hit by that blasted fireball she wouldn't have inhaled that smoke, wouldn't have coughed out the majority of her tortured lungs, wouldn't have died...

Who was he kidding? She would have died anyway, just maybe not today, maybe not now.

The Hero of Kvatch stood nearby, a black orb in her gloved hands and herself coated with a thick layer of soot even over the leather armour she seemed to wear at all times. The battle was won, it seemed, as he chanced to look about the rest of the valley. The gates had collapsed, chunks of obsidian littering the ground, the front end of the siege engine ripped from the rest of it and discarded in its uselessness. The body count was terrific. The number of people injured was even greater. Only a select fifty or so had escaped unscathed, and it was obvious that they would be mentally scarred for the rest of their lives be they long or short.

The ex-Arch-Mage moved to Rush as quickly as he could. His body bore scars that would never fade now; the images of the burns would be imprinted upon his skin forever and ever. They would remind him of this sorrowful day always.

Her breaths were so shallow that even one with no training in the art of Restoration could tell that at least one of her lungs had collapsed or, in this rather unique case, been coughed up violently. The Orc was a shadow of her former self. Her sister stood nearby, eyes cold and unwavering from the spot where she lay, but never once did she venture forward to say some last words.

"We won," the Altmer told her. His voice was raw and his throat was tender from where the flames had assaulted his body, but he tried to sound as convincing as possible. "And you saved me. Again." Yes, Seanturco had decided that it was her doing. If she hadn't put out the fire as quickly as she did he would be dead by now. Dead, or worse. Even if it wasn't her that had cast the healing spell that he _knew_ had to have been placed upon him to help him make it even to this scarred and sensitive stage; he knew it was her who had saved him. He would maintain that for the rest of his days.

He sat down next to her with his knees drawn up into his chest, in amongst the substance that might once have been blood and looked at her for a minute or so. Her hood had fallen back off her face and beneath it her hair was thin and wiry, shot with white and grey from the stress her body was under. Her teeth, and in particular her prominent lower canines, were somewhere between deep yellow and a rotten black. "You know, Rush, I used to absolutely despise your presence. You saved my life time and again and I hated you for it. I figured that I might be... I don't know... capable of taking care of myself. I had managed it before you came along, so why not afterwards?" He paused, a sadness in his blue eyes as he looked about him at the people who stood around. His fingers probed the burnt skin of his face that had cracked and started weeping from the stress of its ordeal.

At least he would survive this.

"But I was wrong, I suppose... I was foolish and stubborn, and I expected that I would be alright when I knew deep down that I wouldn't be. You knew it too. Much as I would have hated to admit it before, I needed you. If you hadn't been there I would have died. Gods only know what'll happen to me when you're gone; I rely on you far too heavily. When I had to rely on myself look what happened! I got bitten by a vampire, infected, changed..." He closed his eyes as he spoke those words but he felt the stares upon his skin, pricking into his soul like knives as the looks of scorn came from the people who would never understand. _Now_, he told himself, _you need to focus on Rush_. "I would have died today without you," he whispered softly. His body still felt like it was on fire, but it was all he could do to prevent himself from crying for a wholly different reason.

"But Fate was kind to us," Seanturco continued, his tear ducts stinging as he gazed once more upon what was little more than a shell. He hoped she would hear this before she died; if she didn't, he would have to seek her out when he joined her in Aetherius and say it all again.

"Together we battled the necromancers time and again! At every turn I did something stupid and put myself in harm's way and at every turn you came to my rescue. _You_ fought and killed Caranya; _you_ took on a Xivilai just to save me from my own foolish plan; _you_ followed Falcar into Silorn while I did my best damsel-in-distress act outside... I barely noticed just how much you'd done for me until we went to Echo Cave though. All this time you'd been like this... indestructible... _shield_ that had prevented me from dying more times than I could count on both hands, and I didn't fully appreciate that until you saved me from Mannimarco." The memory hurt him to bring up, but he noticed that he distant eyes seemed to seek out the sound of his voice as he spoke, never quite managing to pin it down to a set location. There wasn't long left now.

"Oh, I would have died, should have died... But you took the full force of the wrath of the King of Worms, you bore the pain of that horrible curse he put upon you; perhaps it was your strength that meant you made it to today?" He sighed heavily and closed his eyes again, blinking away the tears as best he could. It would not do to cry in front of people he was meant to be leading. "The fact of the matter is, Rush, that I need you. I need you to keep me alive. I need you to train me in combat so I don't hurry blindly onto the sharp end of a blade. I need you to stop me from being a stuck-up bastard. You changed my perceptions well enough, I assure you."

The High Elf inspected the skin of his arms that was charred and bleeding, turning them a strange and unhealthy looking maroon colour. "_Gods_," he breathed in exasperation with himself. "There's so much I should have said so long ago that I can't find a thing to say now... But I'll miss you." Those words sounded clunky and awkward coming from him, as if they didn't quite fit with the persona he was trying to keep; but he _would_ miss her. He had known that even before the curiously alien words found their way from his severely burnt lips. "_Even if I'm the only person who does_," he whispered so quietly that most of the people who were standing around saw his mouth move but heard nothing. And, looking at the survivors, he would be. Even her own sister hated her for something that had happened years earlier.

At least Murz gra-Yazgash wouldn't have to bear the guilt of _killing_ her. As much as Seanturco tried to fight the feeling that it was all his fault he knew he never would, not totally. She would have died without him being hit by that fireball, but maybe not _now_. Smoke inhalation and mostly decayed lungs were not exactly the most suitable of matches.

He sat perfectly still then, just watching the world pass him by for what felt far longer than the three minutes it actually was. The pain was niggling at his mind as his body protested against the treatment it had received; somehow it felt oddly inconsequential now that Rush was at Death's door. "Sleep well, Rush," he murmured. Her breathing was so shallow by now that it was verging on non-existent and every time he looked at her his stomach tightened into an unbearable knot as he imaged her innards still rotting away to nothingness.

Standing, Seanturco closed his eyes and turned away. He couldn't bear to look anymore. There was so much more he could say but no time left to say it, so he simply resolved to leave. As much as he hated himself for leaving her to die all by herself, he just couldn't bring himself to stay there, try as he may.

Turner was with him in an instant. Largely the Argonian looked unharmed compared to the other soldiers and battlemages that stood around, but it didn't take the Altmer long to notice to tears in his armour where he had taken wounds and to recognise to faint thrum of magicka that still lingered over him. The Hero of Kvatch must really care about him if she would waste her magic like that. He must be one of the very few that actually held her friendship. At least he knew her name...

"There's not really very much I could say to you," the assassin admitted after pausing for a long while to think of something viable. "You must have been close..." He was carrying one of the Akaviri katanas wielded only by the Blades over one of his shoulders and his quiver of arrows was all but empty, but other than that there was nothing extraordinary to note about him.

"We weren't though," Seanturco sighed. "If I'm honest, I hardly knew her." He could feel the tears trickling from his eyes now and he could only hope that nobody would notice; with the rest of his face weeping he thought his chances were higher than they would be otherwise. The water made his face burn like somebody had branded it with a red hot iron rod but he ignored it. He didn't expect that Turner would understand exactly what it was that he was feeling right now. Turner hadn't experienced the death of someone close to him... At least, that was what the High Elf saw fit to assume. "I hardly know anybody in this province... I should have just stayed in the Summerset Isles."

The Argonian was shaking his head, but the ex-vampire who he counted as a friend didn't seem to particularly care what he had to say for he was still walking back towards Bruma. "It's not your fault."

Not his fault. _Not his fault._ Oh, how Seanturco wished he could tell this assassin exactly what he thought, exactly how it _was_ his fault. Who else's fault was it supposed to be? Was he supposed to blame it on the gods? On Fate? On _bad luck_? "I wish I could share your optimism."

Now that he was no longer staring endlessly at the rotting corpse of a woman who had saved his life numerous times his own pain was increasingly trying to force its way to the forefront of his mind. He would have to see a healer about it, though he knew that the scars would last forever. Restoration wasn't perfect. If it was Rush would be alive.

_Rush would be alive_. "It should have been me."

"Don't talk like that..." Turner again? Didn't that Argonian know that he didn't want to talk at the moment? Didn't he know to go away?

"She would be alive if I hadn't failed so utterly miserably at killing Mannimarco. All she ever did was save my life. The _last_ thing she ever did was save my life." He snapped around to face his friend. As much as he wanted to be alone, it was oddly reassuring to see that the Argonian didn't flinch at the sight of his scarred face which, judging by the reaction of the others who had been stood around, couldn't look very healthy and was definitely a shocking visage.

The assassin sighed. "I'm sure _anybody_ would have had trouble killing Mannimarco. He was the most powerful necromancer Nirn has ever seen..." Seanturco didn't question how Turner would know that, but he had spent a little time in the Bruma Mages Guild chapter so the ex-Arch-Mage brushed it off. Turner did have an odd habit of just _knowing _things; it led the High Elf to believe that the Argonian was far better educated than he let on. "What she did was noble beyond comparison, but you can't blame that on yourself. She is a hero. See people remember her for that."

Somehow that Argonian always knew the exact right thing to say.

* * *

_Author Note: Sorry about the delay... If I had the time I would regale you with the story of how I came to take over a month to write this chapter, but instead I shall merely say that I... lost possession of my laptop and later my internet connection... I lost whoever said they were going to beta it for me - I checked it, hope it's alright... And... I don't think anyone involved is entirely blameless, however I shall stick with the amazing words of Robbie Williams in the song Phoenix from the Flame and simply say: **Blame yourself, it's easier**... I shall say the blame lies with myself and be done with it..._

_Yes, so, I lost my laptop for a week and by the time I got it back I had rediscovered one of my oldest and dearest loves: BOOKS... Aha! So I have a new favourite book now: A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin, which has some strange parallels with Oblivion, especially since they worship the Seven and their prince is called Joffrey... Then I merely put off writing for a while... dealt with writers' block... and strange issues about being totally alone. Depressing stuff, best not go there..._

_To the people I have yet to reply to reviews from: I apologise... To the totally anonymous person who reviewed chapter 45 and whose review I have misplaced: Sorry about the lack of reply here, but thank you for your review nonetheless._

_About the actual story: the first section is... bad, I know... But after that it gets better, in my humble opinion. I shall reply to your reviews when I go back to school - thank goodness for school, I say! And I hope the next chapter is NOT a month in the making. This chapter is over 14k words without the author note, so it's easily the longest one yet. Waaaaaay_

_Over and out: ~ARTY~_


	47. Bruma

_Quote: __**In war, whichever side may call itself the victors. There are no winners, but all are losers**__ – Neville Chamberlain_

_Yukidog: **Eh, thanks for the review. A late chapter is virtually asking for a late review, right? Me getting better? Hmm... I have no idea, but I guess if you say so it may be true... He wouldn't really be Turner if he wasn't lucky, so... Yeah, a late review is better than no review at all, so thank you :) ~ARTY~**_

* * *

_Chapter 47_

How many people does it take to defeat the army of a Daedric Lord?

Turner considered this fact carefully as he weaved his way between the mountains of corpses and rivers of blood. Three thousand five hundred good men and women had stood against him when the sun had risen that morning. Now that the sun was beginning its weary descent having born witness to such horrific scenes of bloodshed there remained only about two hundred. The bards would wax lyrical about the great sacrifice one day.

This bard begged to disagree.

How many people does it take to defeat the army of a Daedric Lord? In all honesty, Turner reached his conclusion in little more than five short minutes. The answer was simple: one.

He had allowed Seanturco to leave after he had seen the mer struggling against his emotions and trying to maintain a bitter, stoic outward appearance for the people who looked up to him. His friend had seen terrible things as he had seen them himself, but at least this Argonian was not expected to be a leader.

So Turner busied himself with this simple question and his simple conclusion. One person had saved them all from their deaths and the deaths of every single living soul on Nirn, and that person went by the little-spoken name of Idari Mortha.

It was she who had run into the Great Gate while the others tried to merely stay alive and delay the steady and rhythmic march forward of the daedric army, and it was she who had emerged successful at the eleventh hour, a Great Sigil Stone clasped between her leather-coated fingers. If nothing else, Martin was ecstatic.

The Argonian passed slowly by the corpse of the Orcish battlemage who had once witnessed the defeat of Mannimarco. It was virtually unrecognisable as having been an Orc now; one might have been forgiven for even mistaking it for that of a daedra that had had its skin melted away by some vicious acid conjured by some skilled mage. Yet the bodies of the daedra had long since disappeared back to their home of Oblivion for their tumultuous rebirth and to face up to their failings; nobody had noticed the cadavers disappearing one by one in the heat of the battle.

The crowd that had been around the body of the woman that Turner had gleaned to be called Rush from Seanturco's words before her passing was dissipating to search for survivors among the morbid mountains. They would not yet give up hope of finding someone close to death and yet still saveable.

Idari was gone too. Though he had last laid eyes upon her talking to Martin Septim, he found the ex-priest whispering prayers over the remains of Grandmaster Jauffre, who had served him so very well in their time together and the father he had never known beforehand. The weight of Jena's katana suddenly became undeniably obvious on his shoulder as he gazed at the young Imperial muttering away, but he ignored it for now.

The Hero needed locating.

Right now Turner was sure that it was the Dunmeri woman who deserved his attentions. She was mentally unstable, something she managed to hide by simply putting every person she had contact with off from ever finding themselves in her presence again. That, and her brother had been at the battle, and he knew how much she fawned after him in every possible way. If he had died...

The Argonian dreaded to think how Idari might react if Reron was dead. Anybody standing nearby might find themselves run through by any of the numerous weapons she kept on her person at all times or burnt to a crisp by a conjured fireball. If he was the only person in this entire province that stood a chance of surviving her grief then he would gladly lay down his life to offer her some small comfort and to save the others.

That was assuming, of course, that Reron was not among the number of the survivors.

There was hope for Nirn yet. If indeed her ex-vampiric brother had escaped the fate that he almost certainly should have succumbed to then the land would not be subjected to the wrath of a mourning sister who was still pivotal to its survival. Idari would be overcome with joy, placating her fury with the world if only until she was forced to venture into Paradise when she would need that rage to help her to victory. Turner had the utmost faith in her abilities, even if nobody else did. They had simply never seen the side of her that truly cared for a living being to sacrifice her own liberty in order to protect it. She wasn't as heartless as she had led them to believe.

However much of a heart she had, it did not seem to make her any astonishingly less difficult to find. There may have been a low number of survivors searching through the piles and piles of corpses, but for some reason the Listener appeared able to evade his detection at every turn. It wasn't even as easy as to scan the horizon for someone who was short, slight in stature and garbed from head to toe in black; most if not all of the survivors had been stained black by the sheer volume of ash that littered the ground between the bodies now, and there were plenty of short Bretons and Bosmer among them. It was only unusual for a Dunmer to be that short, not the other races.

"You look troubled, pondscum."

Evidently she had found him amid the carnage, something he would have remarked on as 'Typical' if he hadn't been so dead set upon finding her before she found her brother. It was oddly relieving to know that she seemed in relatively high spirits though, which somehow boded well for the future of Cyrodiil. She stood there in a valley created by the mounds on either side, the layers of blood and dirt upon her undisturbed and an unusual expression on her face somewhere between concern and jubilation.

"I was searching for you," he settled upon telling her. She was a friend. She had healed his ailments after the battle without even asking before slinking away when he had removed himself from the crowd in order to comfort Seanturco. Turner would happily have trusted her with his life; she was mentally unstable, but that did not mean that her loyalty was required to be questioned.

"And that troubled you?" Her hood was pushed abnormally far off her face than what he was used to, and the ability to see her eyes was something of a novelty that he almost did a double-take at. He had only caught glimpses of the flashing organs when anger had taken hold of her so many times in the past. "Where was it you believed I had gone?" She seemed genuinely amused at this prospect, as if Turner's mind had put forth an alien notion that she just could not comprehend.

_Don't remind her of her brother_, his mind urged him. "One can never be too careful, Sister. There is much work left to do before Nirn is liberated."

The eyes that he saw so rarely narrowed on instinct. Surely she had not imagined that her job would be done once they had a portal to Paradise? They would not be able to fully utilise it without her. Turner certainly couldn't see himself entering Mankar Camoran's lair and returning alive...

Then he realised his mistake. _Crap_, his mind told him, cursing his utter stupidity and poor choice in wording. _I thought the idea was to _not_ remind her of her brother_.

"Have you seen Reron?" she asked, her eyes returning to their natural diameter but taking on a spark of confusion. She looked about anxiously at the scattering of living souls in search of some recognition she might feel towards one of them.

Turner shook his head. "Has it ever occurred to you that he might be..."

"He's not dead." That answer was definitive beyond questioning. The Argonian could see by the passion in her expression that she believed it with every single fibre of her being and every single thought in her mind and word on her lips. "He'll just be injured, or he'll have gone back to Morrowind, or..."

But Idari had run out of excuses. Turner could see it in her eyes that she had no idea where Reron could be if she couldn't find him. He could be anywhere. He could be dead.

"Perhaps if we head back to Bruma..."

"Why would I do that?" the Dark Elf demanded, that famed anger flaring behind her eyes as she glared at the only person in this whole continent she would go as far as to say she accepted and accepted her in return.

The Speaker resolved to keep a cool head and remain collected so that she wouldn't doubt what he said next: "Because Bruma is the place where they will bring the wounded and where the survivors will congregate to tell their bloodied tales." _And the place where they will make records of the dead_. Thankfully he did not speak his final thought. "If Reron goes anywhere he will go to Bruma."

Idari had no reason to disagree with him. The last time she had seen her brother had been when he was being fitted with an old suit of armour in Cloud Ruler Temple, and if he was any part as proud as his sister he would refuse to be seen accepting charity from anybody, Blade or not. "Very well," she murmured, though somewhat reluctantly. "Reron will be there. You'll see."

Even if the ex-vampire was alive Turner did not suppose that he would return to the frozen city; he had made his disdain for Cyrodiil extremely clear the last time they had met. Something about the Hero of Kvatch troubled him though. She had been disastrously vulnerable since Reron had made his reappearance in her life. Not physically - no, Turner had seen her take on daedra almost three times her size and win – but emotionally. She had lost her flare.

The Argonian almost wished that her brother could have stayed lost forever.

"Did Martin say when he would complete the Paradise ritual?"

"In the morning."

"And you will go alone?"

"I do not believe that the portal will hold long enough for more than one to enter." She smirked. "And I do not think that you would be of much use in there anyway."

"I was not implying that I wished to accompany you!" he lied. It was an easy lie to tell. He did not especially wish to go to Paradise at all; it was the thought of Idari going alone that scared him. "You're easily the most qualified person to travel to Paradise, but..."

That sinister smile was still on her face as she reached up and pulled her hood back to its usual position. "You should know by now that I work better without having to worry about somebody else's safety as opposed to the task in hand. How many times have you been injured in battle?"

"And how many times have I saved _your_ life?" Turner snapped in reply. "_I_ killed the King of Miscarcand. _I_ saved you from Ungolim's arrows."

Still the grin did not falter. All he could see of her now were those dark blue lips pulled into that shadowy sneer, but he could feel the amusement she was gaining from this interaction. At least for now she seemed her normal self. "Who was hit by the spell of an ancient lich and thrown into a wall to be left for dead?" she asked rhetorically. Turner knew where she was going with this. "Who was it that was stabbed in the back by a crazy Breton who worshipped a mummified head? Who ran through an Oblivion gate alone and ended up falling from the top of a tower after fighting a Dremora?"

The Argonian held up three gloved fingers on one hand and two on the other. "You have saved me three times and I have saved you twice," he muttered. "Small margin of difference." He stared straight at her – he would have looked her in the eyes if he could still see them – and he nodded, his mouth being tugged upwards at the corners. "And I found a cure for vampirism," he declared. "Looks like we're even."

Idari sniggered, a strange sound to be coming from her. "If you say so, pondscum," she laughed, looking over at where the remains of the monstrous siege machine were being inspected by a pair of Anvil soldiers. "I honestly don't know why they're so impressed by that," she muttered, pointing to it with her thumb and sparing a glance for the sky, which was now a very pale shade of blue and full of ash clouds the size of a small town.

"It was pretty formidable," Turner admitted with a slight shrug. "I suppose we're all thankful that you closed that gate when you did."

"It wasn't difficult," the Dark Elf stated, beginning to pick her way between the bodies in the direction of the city. Turner followed her dutifully. "Most of Dagon's forces were focussed on assaulting the army that was here and I mostly managed to slip through unseen. Everything else I could run past with only a light Chameleon enchantment. I decided that killing all those daedric bastards would take far too long." She paused, throwing a fleeting look at her Speaker. "Whose katana do you have there?" she asked, perplexed. The Argonian didn't suspect for one fraction of a second that she hadn't _noticed_ the katana on his shoulder; he supposed she had just failed to mention it.

"Jena." The silence he received wasn't particularly reassuring. "She accompanied us to Miscarcand," he explained vaguely. Even then he wasn't sure that she would remember a specific Blade; most people who weren't deemed important weren't graced with names at all.

There was a flicker of recognition in her face, but it was so small that it was scarcely noticeable. "I spoke with her after we left you in Kvatch," she muttered. Apparently that city was still a topic she would prefer not to discuss. She spoke its name awkwardly as if she was struggling to get the words to leave her mouth. "I got the impression that Jauffre was displeased with her... Stupid Breton got himself killed; suppose that makes Steffan the Grandmaster now."

"Steffan?" Turner wasn't especially surprised to hear that news, especially as he knew from talking to the other Blades that Steffan was the only Captain of any significant experience left after Renault died. He had never really spoken to the Imperial – and if he had then it had been so uneventful that he had forgotten it momentarily – but he was certain that any one of the Blades would be a fine candidate for Grandmaster now. "I suppose I should give Jena's katana to him then?"

"Supposedly." She didn't sound especially convinced by this fact at all, and to be honest Turner was almost one hundred percent certain that she like as not did not care what he did with the sword. She probably expected him to keep it for himself; that's what she would have done.

The Argonian was wracking his brains for something to say to her that might hold her attention long enough that she didn't start talking about Reron again. He couldn't cope with her when she was obsessing about her brother's whereabouts, or his health, or some other factor in the life that he had seen in Reron's face quite clearly no longer contained her. Even if she simply could _not_ see that her brother had moved on with his life, the ex-beggar had noticed that glimmer in his cold red eyes that had said far more than his words ever could. He loved her as any brother should, but… He no longer needed her around constantly to make him feel at ease.

To an assassin who had never met his parents and had no known siblings it was an entirely strange concept to have such strong affections for a family member that you needed them near you. The closest he had ever come to family was a drunken Nord in mainland Morrowind. And a Sanctuary full of assassins…

"Do you have any idea what Paradise will be like?"

Idari shrugged. Physically he was far bigger than her - much, much taller and significantly broader – but there was something about her that could hold one in a vicelike grip so that they barely dared to chance to look away. Turner just couldn't imagine her as an innocent child playing with her younger brother. "Paradise is a daedric realm," she said eventually after a little thought. "But it's not the Wastelands. Some daedric realms are said to be so beautiful that you can go blind spending even the shortest amount of time there, and some are said to be so obscure that no mortal has ever laid eyes upon it." She knew an awful lot about the daedra. When asked why, she would always state that it was because when she was younger she was forced to study them by her mad father and subservient mother for reasons that she was always excessively vague about. "It is said by some that the realm personifies its owner. Sheogorath is mad and so His realm is always said to be equally so…" Apparently she was still referring to the Madgod as male, even though she knew for certain that the Lord in question was in fact female now. Traditionally however, this particular Daedric Prince was always depicted as male. "We don't know a great deal about Mankar Camoran or his realm, but we know that all Mythic Dawn agents are sent there when they die… Which suggests…" She stopped dead in her train of thoughts and very nearly in the steps that she was walking. "I'm going to have to kill Camoran," she whispered.

A pair of golden eyes widened in realisation. He could remember seeing the High Elf when they had travelled together to Lake Arrius Caverns to infiltrate the Mythic Dawn and all that he could think was how formidable the man seemed. Mankar Camoran was a mage with the backing of a Daedric Lord, an Altmer no less, which provided him with heightened magical aptitude; he had daedra and devout followers at his service, and… If Mythic Dawn agents could only travel to Paradise when they died, was there a chance that Camoran himself was something other than mortal? "Alone?" Turner stammered, his voice thick with concern for a woman that had twice over tried to kill him and several other times tried to get him killed. "Do you think that's even possible? Do you think you would…?"

"Daedric Lords can't make people immortal, pondscum." His mind flickered to an image of the new Sheogorath as his stomach twisted violently into a knot. That situation was different though… wasn't it? "It will be tricky," she admitted after due consideration. "Camoran's not stupid. I image he will have holed himself up in some fortress at the centre of his twisted little realm with his minions all around. Getting there will be less than easy. His followers will be dead or daedric, so he has nothing to worry about them fearing death and I suppose they will fight for him loyally if they have already died for him once." The Speaker found himself thinking back to the two Mythic Dawn agents he had been attacked by and saved from in Cheydinhal; would she encounter them in there? "And Camoran himself will be powerful. I don't suppose he will have any weapons – he is far too safe in his little realm to bother to be prepared for the battle he expects never to come – but he will be far more skilled in magic than I am…"

"Seanturco beat Mannimarco…"

For an instant confusion clouded her features, but within seconds she had recollected her thoughts and was ready to speak again. "That stupid vampire you insisted on having around?" she asked, searching his face for something that would confirm her statement. "I must admit that that is rather surprising," she conceded as she hopped over one of the few bodies that still littered the valley sides as opposed to the valley floor. An archer, judging by the bow laying a few feet further down the incline, who had had his skull smashed in and nigh on obliterated by a daedric mace. Brains and blood surrounded him like a wonky halo. "How much help did he have with this feat?"

"His…" Unable to find the right word, the Argonian resorted to a different approach. "A battlemage," he decided upon. "But it was he who dealt the final blow." The battlemages in the Bruma camp had been more than willing to talk about it to somebody who claimed that they were a member of the Bruma Mages Guild; in truth he was actually still a member, it seemed. Nobody had ever bothered to kick him out officially. It was a good thing they had though…

"The same battlemage he was all but weeping over at the end of the battle?" So she _did_ remember what he looked like. Then again, it wasn't like her to ever forget someone who might be a potential enemy. The gods only knew she had enough of them to last her six lifetimes.

Turner nodded. "Yes," he said, confirming her suspicions. There were no corpses on this ridge. As far as he could recall, this was the spot where he had begun his career as a soldier, and yet when he looked back down the hill all he could see were over a thousand corpses needing to be identified, reconfirming his original thoughts: _it wasn't a battle, it was a slaughter_. "I hear she was quite something in battle, though I never had the chance to watch her for myself."

"Mannimarco had cursed her," Idari stated, staring blankly ahead towards the towering grey walls of the city they had saved, now that there were no bodies to draw her attention. "Turned her into a thrall by the looks of it…" A while ago the ex-beggar might have been surprised by her skills at perceiving the things that she saw for what they truly were; now he barely spared a thought for them. "Nasty way to go…" Compassionate words, but there was not even a hint of compassion in her tone. She was only stating facts. "Rot from the inside out. You can _feel_ the magic doing its work and the pain associated with it but you can do nothing about it whatsoever. Without the process being completed it is said that a partial thrall will continue rotting until their major organs fail and they die in agony. From what I saw here today, there was nothing to refute these claims. It looked as though she had managed to cough up half her innards anyway…"

He almost winced, but to the ex-beggar's credit it was a fairly natural reaction that he managed to subdue into little more than a shiver running down the length of his spine. It must have been a horrible way to die. "Surely if you Silence Camoran then you'll have little to worry about." That brainwave had hit him suddenly and unexpectedly, and he wasn't even sure if Silence spells were ones that she used with any great regularity; he certainly couldn't recall witnessing one.

The Dunmer took a moment to chew the idea over in her head. A pair of bloodied soldiers passed them with looks of curiosity on their faces but said nothing; their red Skingrad surcoats adorned with twin moons were torn and filthy, and it looked as though they had both taken wounds and been healed back at the city before returning to search for the survivors. Turner decided that it would probably be more logical to bring the healers to the soldiers as opposed to the other way around; perhaps they had not expected anybody to make it back alive. "You know, pondscum, that might actually work." Her voice pierced his thoughts as a needle would pierce a cloth and instantly held his attention again. "But it would have to be a powerful spell. I don't know if I possess the necessary skills in Illusion magic to perform one…"

Illusion, along with Restoration, was probably her weakest school of magic. The Argonian had picked up on that during the time they had spent together over what was now nearing roughly half a year. She could perform a Chameleon charm with ease – her choice of career called for it on a regular basis – but she could also perform weak healing spells on herself and others if the need arose. She probably knew her way around most of the disciplines contained within the school of Illusion… But that did not represent any form of skill. It was enough to make anyone despair over whether she could actually survive her trip to Paradise or not.

"Can't you practice a Silence spell before you go?"

Idari shook her head firmly as thin strips of sunlight began to appear between the red-and-black clouds, illuminating Bruma in its simple grey-stoned splendour. "We don't have the time," she said grimly, a dour expression on her face. "And besides, there's always the chance that Camoran will reflect my own magic against me and then I certainly have no hope of victory."

"Then reflect it back…"

The Dark Elf stopped and snapped around to face him, her features laced with quizzical amusement. "You're a genius!" she grinned, laughing at Turner's shocked appearance with his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. "Enchant enough objects with something similar to Resist Spell and I would be protected from most magical attacks and therefore any of Camoran's spells would have little effect on me… That is a brilliant plan, pondscum!"

"Won't it take time? I've heard that enchanting is notoriously difficult to achieve without the aid of an altar of some description… And those altars are kept almost exclusively in the Arcane University, which neither you nor I am permitted to-" He stopped there and almost laughed. There wasn't a building in Cyrodiil that Idari couldn't find _some_ small way of entering. Besides, the mere mention of the Arcane University led him to remember that he was in fact still friends with the ex-Arch-Mage.

"Not altars," muttered the Listener as they entered the looming shadow of Bruma that sought to engulf them near instantaneously. "All you need is something like a filled Soul Gem, or…" She smirked openly, stepping through the gates into the frozen city. "A Sigil Stone."

xxx

Despite all that had happened, the city of Bruma was structurally exactly the same as it had been the time they had departed. The Chapel of Talos still stood out majestically in its centre and the houses still spiralled around it as they always had; shabby single-floored wooden structures curling around to the south - protected from the elements by the Nine only knew what - and more elaborate buildings to the north with upper storeys and basements and foundations of stone. The Fighters Guild still stood in its elevated position up a set of steps to the west, decorated with the same elaborate carvings and ornate signs as it always had been, the Mages Guild a burnt-out wreck beside it that was beginning to be rebuilt amidst the chaos that had been occurring all across the province of Cyrodiil. The Castle stood higher still, a sentinel to the city as it stood aloof above the towering city walls in varying shades of grey. Narina Carvain was still Countess and her council was still the same; her people looked none the worse for wear either in their thick furs or rich velvets as they bustled between their homes as if nothing had happened.

And yet Bruma was completely different now.

Seanturco stopped just inside the eastern gate of the frozen city and ran a scarred hand over the cold stone blocks which made up the walls of the town that Dagon's army had not been able to breach. He could _feel_ their eyes watching him as he stepped away and made his way towards the chapel, feet making light indentations in the fine layer of snow that had not yet turned to sludge beneath hundreds of pairs of boots. Did they pity him? With his burnt face and blackened robes it was not difficult to tell that he had seen the battle, so perhaps they wished to know the outcome? Did they fear him? He would fear himself too if he could see the destroyed skin covering his body and not feel an overwhelming sense of guilt and loathing.

The burns tingled uncomfortably as the chilly wind assaulted them brutally and blew his singed hair wildly in whichever direction it felt inclined to at that precise moment. Rush wouldn't have wanted him to mourn her like this, he knew, so perhaps as soon as he had seen a healer about his wounds he would join with Turner's quest to free Cyrodiil from Dagon's power. He needed something to keep him occupied, at least for the time being; he didn't feel up to facing the Mages Guild just yet. Those battlemages could do what they pleased.

He had never liked Bruma. Everything here was brown or grey or white, the buildings, the people. It was almost as if the colour in the city had been sucked out by the near permanent winter; the snow covered the plants and the yellow banners and smothered the city in its chokehold.

But now the city was red.

There was blood staining the white blanket leading up to the chapel from the wounded soldiers who had staggered here as their life left them. There was blood on the door-handles and staining the clothes of the terrified citizens who stood about. Everywhere Seanturco looked, all he could see was blood; even his own body was covered with blood that in the majority didn't belong to him – Rush's was thick as treacle and black as charcoal, soaked deep into his light blue robe and still yet to dry; his own was thin and watery and seeping endlessly from the cracks in his burnt body, covering his golden skin and trailing in thick drips down his arms where it splashed to the white ground and added to the redness.

The pain was excruciating, but he felt almost numb to it. He barely noticed the melted snow freezing his feet. He was so dead to the world and yet so alert; not one of their frightened looks went unnoted by him. He would be getting looks like that for the rest of his life; he knew as well as anybody else that the scars would never fade and forever people would be wondering how he came to look so hideous.

He pushed open the heavy chapel doors with a considerable amount of effort; he didn't want to be alive but he didn't want to be dead either – his dilemma perplexed him constantly. To say that the huge room was bustling with activity would have been a gross overstatement. There simply weren't enough soldiers left for anywhere in this town be _bustling_. The walls were festooned with tapestries and votive plaques dedicated to Talos, who had once been Tiber Septim, and spots of light touched the floor through the stained glass windows to alter the colour of the stones. Bouquets of flowers were placed beneath the small altars which people used to gain favour with the Nine, and today especially there were hundreds of them of all different varieties; some had messages scrawled on scraps of paper hidden amongst them and others lay bare for the world to see. The main aisle had been converted by the priests and priestesses into a makeshift sickroom and the soldiers lay on the uncomfortable wooden benches as they were seen to, dyeing the dark wood a sickly shade of crimson with their precious life's blood. The wounds were many and varied, from shallow, painful scratches to broken bones to full amputations; many of the more severely injured would never leave this place and the same again would never recover to their former strength. Many of the healers here seemed a long way out of their depth; it was a shame that the Mages Guild had gone up in flames – their expertise in the arts of Restoration would have been more than useful.

"Those look like nasty burns…" The Redguard man stating the obvious didn't look much like a priest, or a healer, in a brown doublet worn with a cream shirt and dirty white trousers, but he introduced himself as such: "I'm Cirroc, Bruma's Chapel Healer."

"Well observed," Seanturco breathed. He knew a bit about Restoration from his escapades in the Mages Guild, enough to know that his scars would never fade, but he resolved to allow Cirroc his moment for now.

The healer inspected the furrows in his skin with an eye of scrutiny. "I'm afraid there's not much I can do for the scarring," he said apologetically, gaze wandering over his bloodstained arms as he folded his own to think carefully. "However I'm sure I can stop the weeping, and there are potions that can be given for the pain. A tincture made from poppy juice is said to be very effective at numbing pain and inducing sleep…"

"I don't want to sleep."

The force of the rejection made Cirroc back-pedal slightly. "Sleeping it usually a great cure…" he stammered, glancing around to see if there was some other priest nearby to back him up on his words. "It gives your body time to rest and recuperate…"

It was all that the High Elf could do to stop himself laughing in the unfortunate Redguard's face. "But what if there _is_ no time?" he asked. It was a sincere question, but it sounded as though it were laden with a full bucket-load of sarcasm. "What if the world was coming to an end and I turned around and told it to wait its turn because I had to wait until my burns healed? Sorry Dagon, could you delay your invasion while I sleep? Somehow I do not believe that that is among the better plans I have ever concluded to follow."

A pair of brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Then pray tell – and excuse my ignorance – if you do not wish to be healed, why are you here?"

"I don't quite recall ever expressing my wishes to _not_ be healed," he intoned flatly as one of the soldiers who looked as though he had been separated from his left hand vomited something gory across the stone floor. Why _was_ he here? Seanturco honestly couldn't remember anymore.

"Burns as severe as these are unlikely to ever heal fully, and there will forever be a large degree of scarring. Restoration magic is not quite as perfect as we would like it to be, I'm afraid."

"I know." But why _had_ he come here? Was it to be near living souls rather than the dead? Pointless; he had never been the most sociable of people. Was he here to pray for Rush's soul? Equally pointless; she believed only in Malacath – to pray to the Nine would almost be an insult rather than a blessing. Was he here for himself? Again, pointless; he didn't care what happened to him anymore. "I've seen some terrible things here today and I've felt pain unlike any other… I will never forget, much as I will never lose my scars. Maybe I would _like_ to keep my scars for the rest of my life, to remind me, but if you would I ask you to stop the infernal weeping of my skin," he muttered. It struck him that he sounded oddly philosophical today, but Turner had told him to see that people remembered Rush for a hero and his scars showed that better than any words he could paint himself; he would leave the story-telling to the bards and show the people he would chance upon the stark reality. Bards would never sing of the inglorious side of war like his wounds would.

Cirroc nodded and strode away briskly to a small table covered in various alchemical ingredients – dried flowers and mushrooms, nuts and seeds and roots, and even what looked like parts from dead daedra that had been dried and preserved with salt to keep them from rotting. He settled down with a mortar and pestle and began to grind together some kind of ointment.

While he waited, Seanturco became shamelessly aware of the fact that he should almost definitely have kept his only friend closer to him after the battle. He sunk to the floor with his back against one of the great stone pillars with his tattered robe billowing out like it was being blown in the wind and observed the room around him. A woman had just passed over into Aetherius, it seemed, as the priests and priestesses were offering up quiet prayers over the body; blood was still dripping from the corpse even now in a steady rhythm and the droplets caused minute splashes in the pool that was spreading across the floor hungrily. Shards of broken arrows lay all around her, as if the daedra had felt the need to use this poor woman as some sort of a pincushion for their own amusement. In his mind's eye, the High Elf could almost see the woman's face when she was full of life, but now it was stained scarlet and there was a look of fear in her dead green eyes. Her hair was matted behind her head and her mouth was opened ever so slightly in a silent scream of pain and anguish. She would have been pretty before…

Shaking his head, the Altmer rose to his feet and padded mutely to the altar of Dibella. "Watch over her," he muttered, inclining his head in respect. He had never been religious, but somehow falling back on a faith he could scarcely lay a claim to comforted him in his loneliness. He hadn't even known that woman's name.

He wandered aimlessly until he found himself standing in front of the altar of Arkay. _Yes_, Arkay, it would _have _to be Arkay. The books told that Arkay was the God of Birth and Death, the member of the Nine who kept order amongst the mortals. "Why did You do all this to us?" the angry ex-vampire growled at the likeness in the stained glass window above the altar. Arkay hated the undead, it was said, but _why_ had he taken so many souls today? There had been no undead on that battlefield, only daedra and mortals, and in the end the mortals had only won the most small of insignificant victories despite massive costs of life. "Did we fall out of Your favour? Did all these people deserve to die?"

He looked around to see a Breton boy scarcely older than sixteen being supported by three fully grown soldiers with what looked like a small dagger embedded in his right thigh almost up to the hilt, his groans of pain the only indication that he hadn't died from his wound. "The Nine are supposed to bring people hope," he objected to the inanimate altar and patterned, frosted glass. "But where were You when our people lay dying? Where were You when Kvatch was stormed? The bards will tell us how the Nine sent forth a Hero all garbed in black, with knives on her hips and a sword on her back, and yet… The Hero of Kvatch believes in the Nine no more than a god-hater. Why _didn't_ You save us?"

Sensing a presence behind him, Seanturco spun to see the Chapel Healer holding a small package wrapped in a cream-coloured cloth and tied up with a fraying length of string. "Put this salve on your skin when you sleep," the Redguard told him, thrusting the bundle into his burnt fingers. "If not for sleep, then be sure you put it on when you are somewhere warm or it will freeze and likely do more harm than good… There's nothing much else I can do for you, I'm afraid."

"You've done plenty," the ex-Arch-Mage told him while forcing the smallest of smiles in the interests of politeness. "I thank you from the bottom of my heart." He gripped the parcel and sighed heavily as he glanced about the room once more, taking in the grim scene for what he hoped would be the final time.

"May the Nine watch over you," Cirroc told him with a brief nod, turning on his heels to see to the next victim of the battle.

Seanturco almost snorted. They wouldn't watch over a poor insignificant ex-vampire ex-Arch-Mage like him. They had _far_ better things to do with their time. And so did he, he decided as he thrust the package deep into a pocket of his tattered robe; he would need to replace that thing at the first opportunity, but for now he simply didn't care what people thought of the way he looked.

The cold Jerall wind hit him like a hammer and very nearly knocked the breath from his lungs when he stepped back out. Whatever spells had been warming the chapel had obviously been powerful ones; probably charms laid down to keep the devout townsfolk warm during their venerations. The pain that followed was welcome though, because the rushing wind set about cooling his wounds and soothing the burns even though the stabbing started again almost instantly. But stinging was fine; the conditions in Bruma had often felt like pincers on his skin even before he had been injured – they had sought out his weaknesses mercilessly and made him suffer for them like some sadistic master of an unfortunate slave – and even if they were doing more harm than good, at least it was a respite of some description, however small.

Blue eyes scanned the area once more. It was unchanged from before, save for perhaps the tiniest smear of snow having been displaced by a long pair of boots and an extra drip or two of blood here and there. Finally they turned to the sky as the black clouds of ash were beginning to descend onto the ground like a thick mist; it would be sensible to stay inside until it settled, but Seanturco didn't want to stay here anymore. He squinted over the city walls at where Cloud Ruler Temple sat nestled in its usual impregnable place on the mountainside. Somehow, having made the journey more than once in the past, traversing that hill in an ash storm did not seem vastly intelligent. Seanturco wasn't sure if he valued intelligence highly at all anymore.

"You won't want to be headed up that mountain with them clouds coming down," a member of the Bruma Watch warned him as he approached the northern gate of the city full of an air of grim determination.

"The clouds are the last of my worries," the ex-vampire murmured in reply as he crossed the stony threshold into the Jerall Mountains. It was strange really, that following a full scale battle against an invasion of daedric _beings_ people should be worried about the effects clouds of ash would have on their health. Surely being smothered with ash was healthier than having a spear thrust through the fleshy part of your throat? Or perhaps having your legs amputated against your will by an axe the size of your full arm wielded in just one hand by a monster so horrifying that you quake to even think about it? Or perhaps having your intestines forcibly ripped from your body by the talons and beak of a chattering menace? The Master-Wizard could think of _far_ worse ways to die than to choke on some ash.

He did begin to regret his decision though, around about the time that the cinders were falling thickly as a blizzard, picked up by the wind and rolled like a wave into the stragglers who dared traverse this hillside. He tore off a section of the sleeve of his robe and wrapped it around his nose and mouth so that he might breathe easily enough, but his vision was vastly impaired by the thick torrents that surrounded him on all sides. The Altmer could barely see two feet in front of him at the height, and became paranoid about just how close he was to the edge of the narrow mountain trail until he stumbled into the mountain wall instead and gashed open his thigh on a loose rock. He managed to rasp out a healing spell as he was forced to glue his eyes shut in order to protect himself from the onslaught.

Respite came for a few moments when the wind dropped and everything seemed to be calm. Smearing ash from his face with his one remaining sleeve, Seanturco took the opportunity to get his bearings once more, eyes focussing quickly on the small watch-fires only about fifty feet further up that the Blades used to keep warm and to see at night; he doubted that there would be patrols of guards out now though – the vast majority of the Blades had found their way into the battle somehow and a vast majority of those who had done so had not survived or not yet returned. They wouldn't be expecting anyone stupid enough to climb their mountain in an ash storm either, and they wouldn't have been able to see him even if they looked.

_Would that it rained_. The next time Jerall saw any shower of water hurtling down would be a bad day for Bruma County. The liquid would pick up the loose ash and run down the hills in a vicious torrent, swamping anything and everything in its way; the city itself would not fall to something so simple – of that Seanturco was sure – but the farms about would be flooded, drowned, and the silt would build up on the valley floor as thick as mud and as high as a barn. It was not over for these mountains yet.

The gale was picking back up as the mage staggered into the huge wooden gates of Cloud Ruler Temple and hammered upon them in earnest until he heard two pairs of boots descending the stone steps and two sets of lungs coughing against the flecks that had contaminated their air. "Who goes?" asked a stifled tone that he did not recognise. It was barely loud enough to pick out over the deafening roar that nearly smothered the sound on the spot.

He introduced himself: "Master-Wizard Seanturco of the Mages Guild," he managed to say, though he had to repeat himself four times before they could ascertain the words. Almost a minute later the doors swung inwards and he finally got inside; the ash had fallen so thickly on the ground at the base of the stairs that it almost reached his knees, and it took a severe amount of effort to pull his legs free just to climb to accursed things.

The two Blades looked decided worse for wear. Neither had seen fit to protect their airways from the battery of the dust particles, and as a result they both looked as though they were about to pass out from lack of oxygen as they fumbled with the gates to close them again. As with all Blades, it seemed as though their duty came before the damage that they were doing to their bodies.

All three of them virtually fell into the Great Hall when they reached the door.

"I find it a little strange that you would travel all the way here in the middle of such a storm, Master-Wizard," a voice above him intoned as he struggled back to his feet from his staggered position.

"There is nothing for me in the city, Your Grace," Seanturco explained, wincing as his wounds pulled when he moved. _But why did I come here now_? That was a question even the High Elf himself could not answer definitively.

The speaker chuckled. "Please don't call me 'Your Grace'," he asked with all due politeness. "Martin will do while we are here." Despite the battle, the heir to the Tamrielic throne looked none the worse for wear; he was dressed in a simple blue robe that fell to the floor and his blue eyes smiled with the same warmth they had always done. "Would you like to see one of our healers?" Seanturco had heard it said once that the Emperor's illegitimate heir had spent some time as a priest in Kvatch before the city had been sacked by Dagon, but the fact had never truly been verified.

He shook his head. "The scars will never fade," the mage explained, dusting his charred robe off for very little reason other than habit that he feared he would never break. "There's little point, really." The subconscious shrug made his neck and back burn.

Martin nodded with a kind of foolhardy understanding that for some reason the ex-Arch-Mage failed to believe that he truly possessed. "Very well," he said warmly. "I was sorry to see your friend die so horribly..."

For a second, Seanturco almost wondered what he was talking about... Until he remembered about Rush. "She wasn't truly a friend," the mer told him, though the words felt forced and made his throat constrict painfully so that he had to fight to make himself heard. "After I was beset with vampirism, the Mages Guild deemed fit to assign each of their higher ranked members a battlemage for protection and when I returned I had no choice..."

The Imperial smiled. "But a friend is only somebody that you care about. I heard the words you said to her as she died; perhaps you were thrown together in the beginning, but your begrudgingly relationship eventually turned to love..."

"Love?" Seanturco nearly choked on that word as he repeated it, spluttering painfully on his burnt oesophagus. "I assure you, Your Grace, I did not love that woman."

"You misunderstand me," Martin told him with a glimmer of amusement in his royal eyes. It was said the Septims saw more than the mere commoners in Tamriel – they were the _Dragonblood_ – they knew things that mortals could only dream. "There is more than one type of love," he explained slowly, gesturing for the wounded man to be seated upon a wooden bench as he spoke. The Altmer obliged him, if only to hear what his future Emperor had to say. "Love for one's family-" The Heir raised a single finger to signify that he had made a point worth noting. "-Is a strong type of love. It can drive parents to die for their children and siblings to make the ultimate sacrifice for one another; it is an unwilling love, one that cannot always be felt but never truly be forgotten and often mistaken for hatred."

"The love that you believe I imply between you and your bodyguard-" A second finger joined the first as the man sat himself on the opposite bench, elbows rested on the table casually. "-Is the love that most people would deem 'love'. Passionate love and sensual desire. Perhaps the purest kind of love there is..." He chuckled. "Sanguine was a great fan."

"And the third kind-" A third finger; supposedly the last. "-Is the love that I intended to imply. The love between comrades that leads people to lay down their lives for their friends; in my mind, there is no greater love. Your friend gave up her life so that you might live and she did so without a thought; that is true love."

"She was already dying!" the mage blurted out without thinking. His hands were screwed so tightly into balls that his nails were digging into his palms until they almost drew blood, but it was not anger that fuelled his actions. It was guilt. "She was dying before she saved me!"

Martin nodded. "From a curse placed upon her by the King of Worms, I heard," he said. His voice was soothingly calm even when so close to being drowned out by the howling wind outside. "I heard it was you who bested Mannimarco in the end. Congratulations."

"But I only won because of..." His voice trailed off and his hands fell slack by his sides so suddenly that it looked as though he had lost consciousness for a moment. "Because Rush gave up her life," he whispered.

The last of the Septims smiled knowingly. "And that, dear friend, is the extent of her love."

xxx

"You're not really considering running back to Anvil, are you?" the gruff voice from over her shoulder demanded as Falicia tore at the straps of her near-crushed glass cuirass and threw it over the back of her white horse with so much force that the animal nearly bolted then and there.

"I've no reason to stay here."

The sound of metal on metal told her beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man was folding his arms, though she refused to turn around. "You came here with twelve men, Guardian. I don't see them here now."

"That's because they're dead, Oreyn," she spat in reply, her tone like venom as she grabbed the last of her things and hauled them onto her mount.

"A good leader would stay until their bodies were found."

"And I never claimed to be a good leader."

"You're running..."

"I almost died here today." She placed a foot firmly in the stirrup and swung her leg over the animal's back.

"You and every other bloody person in this town." A mailed hand gripped her arm and dragged her out of the saddle; she would have sprawled on the floor if he hadn't been holding her up. "You stay until your men are found, then you see them buried or you cart their bodies right back to that little shit-hole of a port down there, alright?"

Falicia ground her teeth as Modryn Oreyn removed her things from her horse and carried them back into the city. "It's not like you've got nowhere to stay here, boot," he pointed out to her without turning. She knew he was right, but she hated him for it. She only wanted to leave this place; she had stayed too long already.

For a moment she considered climbing onto the white mare and riding back without her things in an act of defiance against the man who was almost Master of the Fighters Guild by default since Vilena Donton had perished in the battle, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to face the questions from the friends and families of the people she had left behind selfishly in her own attempts to flee. She followed the Dunmer begrudgingly.

Ash was still falling now, but not as thickly as it had been. Some people stood in the streets with shovels to move the offending cinders away from their homes and out of their paths, while others just saw fit to wade through them as though they were simply walking through snow. Luckily for the Bosmer the dust that would have blocked her way had already been removed or trampled down, for it would have reached her mid-thigh and made walking almost impossible.

"... I am so sorry Catia, your son fought valiantly..." To the soldier's credit he looked as though he believed every word he was telling the woman as she collapsed in tears on her front porch amid the ashes.

Falicia paused to watch the scene as the soldier stooped down and hugged the woman tightly in face of her grief; it was a nice gesture really, she decided as the distraught mother sobbed into his shoulder. Catia was not an old woman, which led the Wood Elf to believe that her son had scarcely been an adult when he had been taken to Aetherius. "He was a brave man," the soldier reassured her. By the look of the hole in his yellow surcoat and the trail of blood that ran near the entire length of his back it looked as though he himself had taken an arrow in the shoulder. He had escaped lightly on most counts.

"Thank you for telling me, Pilper," the woman gasped when her wails of anguish had faded to sniffs and sobs. "I am so glad that it was you..."

The soldier, apparently named Pilper, shook his head. "I could not allow you to hear from anyone but me... Afer was like a brother to me; I was with him when he died..." _Ah_, thought Falicia, _that old sob-story_. Well, it might have been as true as the soldier made it out to be, but that didn't make it any less of a tale that one heard all too often after battle. If she had to inform any of the parents in Anvil of their child's demise, she would probably tell the same story... But that didn't necessarily make it the truth; it just made the grieving parents feel better.

"You are always welcome in my home, Pilper," Catia whispered, holding the young soldier close in a tight embrace. _Same old, same old_. Falicia had had enough of her comrades die to know exactly how the people who were left behind grieved. Eventually the woman would come to see a lot of her son in this soldier and his grief would keep them close until one or other of them died. It was sad, really...

Shaking her head, the Guardian continued on her way towards the Fighters Guild. If she died nobody would make the journey to tell her family what had happened; it didn't really matter though, if she was honest. She'd been an orphan longer than she could remember.

For as long as she had been in the Fighters Guild, she had only really seen inside the larger guildhalls at Anvil and Chorrol and Cheydinhal, so the small wooden structure that made up the chapter in Bruma came of something of a shock to her. The building itself only had two rooms, the upper floor containing a large round table where she presumed that the members might take their meals, and the basement was little more than a sparring area where they slept. There were no more than five members who frequented this place, and in all honesty Falicia couldn't say she blamed them as she shifted her furs to keep warm in this frozen town and its frosted buildings. The only place she could truly say she didn't feel as though her fingers were about to drop off with cold was the chapel, and she wasn't so steeped in religion that she felt the need to visit the place even on Sundas.

"Good to see you put your duty above your need to run away," Modryn Oreyn grunted at her as she struggled to pull the door shut against the strong winds that had chosen the most inopportune of moments to pick up. Now that he was no longer required to wear his helmet he was taking the time to force his hair back into his signature Mohawk.

Falicia's eyes narrowed by a tiny fraction. "Do you _honestly_ believe that my men are alive?" she asked him, rummaging through the pile of her stuff that the Dark Elf had dumped unceremoniously on the floor when he'd entered the room.

"Of course not." His bluntness was something that the Bosmer had always admired about him. It made him a good sort of person to have on your side when things looked bleak. "You might be lucky. There might be one or two, but I think they're all dead."

"Then why make me come back?"

"Duty."

The woman sighed as she hauled her glass cuirass up onto the round table, the force making a pair of glasses fall over as it made contact. She tore the piece of soiled tan cloth from her hair and her fringe fell over her eyes, and running her fingers through it she found her hair matted with mud and blood. She tied the cloth back into it just to get it out of the way. "I don't want to tell their families they died," she muttered as she turned her attention back to her cracked armour.

Oreyn snorted. "I have to tell Viranus Donton his mother got herself killed by a Xivilai before she even drew her sword. Damn kid already lost his brother in service of this bloody guild. All that woman ever did was coddle the boy. He hasn't got a hope in the whole of bloody Nirn in being able to take care of himself with her gone... I give him a month before he dies on a contract."

Yes, Falicia had been asked to take Viranus on one of her contracts before to find a lost farmer and the stupid boy had almost got himself killed by haphazardly running towards the danger of trolls and ogres and even a minotaur. She had barely had time to rescue him on more than one occasion. Even killing Azani Blackheart had been easier than trying to save the Master's son from himself.

"I don't envy you," she murmured as she ran a finger over one of the dents in the cuirass. "Are there any decent armourers in Bruma?"

"Olfand or Fjotreid would be able to fix that up for you." Modryn ran a discerning eye over the damage. "But go to Olfand. His wife Skjorta will be able to find you some thicker furs before you freeze..." He chuckled. "People say she runs around the town naked when she's drunk; that's a sight I'd love to see."

Falicia scoffed, though she had to admit he was right. She had never expected to stay in this town for any length of time, but if she was forced to remain here until all the bodies were identified then she definitely needed something to keep herself warm. She was used to Valenwood, where the trees moved and the sun shone, not the Jerall Mountains which could see snow fall as high as her waist and still think nothing of it.

"Who replaces Vilena as Master?" she asked suddenly, curiosity dragging the question from her lips before she could even form it properly.

The Dark Elf growled. "Vilena only named one Champion," he admitted, though he wasn't too happy about that. "But she wouldn't have wanted me to be Master any more than I would have wanted it myself. The woman's logic escapes me."

"You don't want to be Master?"

"Would you?"

The Guardian paused to think of the actual answer to that question. She smirked, running fingers through the mess that was her hair, but as soon as they refused to budge any further against the knots she simply removed them. "Of course not," she laughed. "Far too much paperwork!" The fact that she was barely literate didn't help either; she had only begun to learn her letters since she had arrived in Cyrodiil.

"Then we understand each other," said Oreyn as he kicked his feet up on the table and made any of the remaining glasses topple. "It takes a different type of fighter to sit up in an office rather than get out in the field."

"Considered promoting Azzan?" Falicia suggested. She sunk into a chair – her armour could wait a little bit longer. "He stuck back in Anvil because he said that somebody had to remain in charge down there... Sent me instead."

Nodding, the Dunmer reached for a chunk of bread that Falicia could honestly say she hadn't acknowledged the existence of and tore into it with his teeth, chewing loudly. "Azzan's a good man," he confessed, his mouth still full of partly ground food. "And a good fighter. But he's been in this guild longer than I have; started when he was a boy, grew up here... Gods only know we need some younger bloods that don't get killed on their first damned contract..." He growled angrily. "Why did Vilena have to get herself killed? She was a bloody good Master – didn't even take time out when Vitellus died – and nobody ever wanted to oppose her for it. Now she's dead we don't have a replacement. _Why_ did that damn woman _insist_ on coming here? I was more than capable of leading the men into battle... She hadn't been in the field in months. I _told_ her..."

"Would _you_ have stayed if she had asked you to?"

Modryn swallowed his bread and chuckled. "No." He shook his head firmly. "I wouldn't have listened to her if she'd pleaded on her knees. She was a good woman, but towards the end she was little more than a figurehead for the guild... Bloody good warrior before she became Master; that's what that kind of work does to you... Didn't even draw her damned sword..."

"That Xivilai came out of nowhere," Falicia pointed out solemnly. "If it wasn't her, it would've been someone else..." _Someone like me, perhaps_. "Dying in battle is a good way to go. She'll get to see her husband and son now, I guess..."

"If you believe in Aetherius," came the gruff reply, accompanied by the sounds of chewing again as he tore another chunk from his bread.

_I don't_. She didn't speak the words though; it often shattered the hope of all the people around her. "How many d'you reckon survived from the Guild?" She rotated the wrist that she had broken earlier that day with the small satisfaction that it did not hurt much at all. Finally she settled down to crack the knuckles on her left hand.

The Dark Elf shrugged. "That Xivilai killed more than just Vilena," he grunted with dissatisfaction. "We came here with maybe... fifty? We'll be lucky if we find ten. Recruiting will be difficult with those bastards at the Blackwood Company stealing our contracts, but we'll have to rebuild. Craven little shits didn't even show their faces for the good of Tamriel..." He spat on the floor to show his distaste.

"We'll get them," Falicia promised. "Even if we have to destroy them, play them at their own game... I promise you this: the Blackwood Company _will_ fall before we do."

* * *

_Author Note: Late again? I know. I'm sorry. However, it is one day OFF being a month this time, so it's not quite... AS late. Life got complicated, I got writers' block. I also didn't check this chapter. If you see anything glaring, please point it out; I honestly don't have time to look through it myself._

_This is for **Commentaholic** and **DualKatanas**, for everything they've done for me this past month, and also for **NameNotRequired**, for bothering to read through the entire story and give me a review at the end. Thank you :)_

_One more thing: **Are there any characters you want to see as narrators before the end of this story? **Choosing the POV character is often tricky, and I have a hard time gauging who needs more light and who needs less, etc. Please let me know. If not by review, then by PM. There are only about three chapters left, so I would get in quickly_

_~ARTY~_


	48. Paradise

Quote**: Valar morghulis** - A Song of Ice and Fire (Means 'All men must die')

**PizzaOreos** - Thanks for the review... I hope this battle's OK, and I hope you liked the battle in chapter 46. I'm not very good at writing battle scenes so there aren't that many really. ~ARTY~

* * *

_Chapter 48_

The rains came earlier than anybody could have anticipated.

Just two days after what would be dubbed 'The Battle of Bruma' in future documents was finished the heavens opened and water fell in sheets, soaking everything in sight and washing into the crevices in every nook and cranny of the Jerall Mountains. Where the ash had fallen before the water mixed with it to form a thick paste that turned into a muddy torrent on the second day, washing down the mountainsides in a filthy stream and engulfing anything that stood in its way. Trees, houses, animals, people, all fell beneath the surge and anybody who was not within the safety of the high walls of Bruma found themselves either dead or stranded on roofs of buildings just high enough or just strong enough to remain standing.

As soon as the rains subsided the frosts blew in from the north, solidifying the mixture into a thick gelatinous gunge some three feet high that covered most of Bruma County like a sheet flecked with leaves and debris from the things that it had destroyed. Many of the bodies from the battlefield would not be discovered and identified for many months now.

At first light on the sixth day following the slaughter, a pair of leather garbed assassins found themselves knee-deep in the disgusting substance, trying to get their feet to find some purchase on the loose stones beneath as they made their way towards the stronghold of the Blades that sat part way up a hillside that had not been so lucky as to escape the onslaught of fire and water and ice.

The smaller figure, the Dunmer, had been wading through this gloop when it had reached her waist nearer the gates of the city and quite frankly she was sick of the sight of the stuff by now, newly enchanted rings bestowed with Reflect enchantments adorning all eight of her fingers and a pendant around her neck.

"Look on the bright side," her companion told her as he pulled his leg from the mud with an audible squelch before plunging it back in just a few foot or so in front of its previous position. "At least they can't blame you for being late." The pair had been stranded in Bruma just like the rest of the townsfolk when the weather had started acting up; they had sought shelter inside a house that had once belonged to a Speaker of their order and set about enchanting the trinkets with Sigil stones that the Argonian had been astonished to find out that his Listener had been carrying with her this entire time in a secret pocket of her armour. The magic was tricky and largely he had left her be.

"We've lost a week," Idari pointed out. In frustration she hurled a fireball at the area of mud in front of her, baking it hard so she could walk across it as regular ground. "After an invasion on that scale Dagon will not be waiting around for us to act. We barely won…"

Turner was mildly surprised to say the least. In the past few days it was almost as if the urgency of their cause had finally hit her almost a year late. She had never really cared for the fate of Cyrodiil or its people until the moment when she physically _couldn't_ do anything to help them. He suspected that it was her uncertainty as to her brother's destiny that had spurred her on to come to their aid after all this time.

"But we _did_ win," the Argonian insisted, scrambling on his hands and knees onto the area that she had hardened enough to walk on and following her awkwardly. "Dagon thought he could stomp in here with his army of daedra and kill us all and we proved him wrong."

"At huge cost." Apparently satisfied with her method of forming a pathway, she continued to systematically roast the pits of ash in front of her into a trail for her to walk on. "Thousands of people died or were injured that day. We don't have enough people in this _province_ to keep Dagon at bay any longer, let alone people trained with weapons."

The Speaker's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "It is rather like a game," he said slowly. "Dagon has made his move and now we make ours assaulting Paradise. If he wasn't waiting for us to retrieve the Amulet of Kings he would have attacked by now; he has the means and the power to storm Cloud Ruler Temple at any moment and murder Martin. I honestly don't think this is about destroying the Septim Dynasty anymore…"

"Well I hope you're right."

Their progress after that was almost as painstakingly slow as the conversation that ensued – or rather, didn't ensue – until the moment when the walls of Cloud Ruler were within touching distance and the mounds of ash were piled high outside the fort as though the poor Blades had been shovelling the disgusting mix over their battlements for the past week or so. Idari noticed, to her own sadistic amusement, that in doing so they had actually made it simple enough for anyone with the most basic of acrobatic ability to virtually vault over the walls with ease. Still, it couldn't be said that she blamed them for this mishap; Captain – or rather _Grandmaster_ – Steffan would be likely having difficulties adjusting to his new role as head of their ancient order, and with so many of their comrades dead they were probably severely lacking in manpower to rectify their mistakes. They would fix the problem in due time, she supposed.

A sharp rap on the gates saw a pair of beaten Blades pulling the structure open, their bodies bruised and their eyes surrounded by thick black bags as though they had not slept this whole week. The Dark Elf did not see the flicker of hope that crossed their faces when they laid eyes upon her and her companion; she wouldn't. She understood the urgency of the cause perfectly now, but she would never comprehend why they still waited for her. There were other heroes in this province, ones she deemed to be far more deserving of the accolade. Even the citizens seemed to know who she was these days… Would they think differently if they knew of her past sins? If they knew that the person they were thanking for rescuing their children was actually the infamous Listener of the Dark Brotherhood? It would be for the best if they never found out.

Cloud Ruler Temple was subdued in its atmosphere as Idari and Turner crossed the courtyard into the Main Hall, weary eyes following their every step. The Emperor's bodyguards still looked out over the Jerall Mountains to look for any threats, but it was different here somehow now that so many of them would never grace the walls again.

"Welcome, Hero," Steffan murmured to her when she walked in. She had half expected that he would berate her for her lateness as his predecessor would have done, but Jauffre was dead along with the rest and his old habits had died with him, it seemed.

Turner stepped forward and pulled the Akaviri katana from its sling over his shoulder where it had hung for the past week. "I thought it would be best to give this to you," he muttered, and it seemed that his optimism had been dampened by the mood in this room. The fire dancing in the grate was about as lively as this place got. He offered the blade to the Imperial hilt first. "I'm sure Jena would have wanted to be remembered…" He pointed to the plaques around the room symbolising all the dead Blades that had given their lives in service of their Emperor; there would be so many more of them appearing over the next few weeks that he could hardly bear thinking about it.

"Jena…" the Grandmaster smiled weakly, accepting the katana. He was not as old as Jauffre had been, but his youth had long since deserted him and lines were beginning to appear on his face through age and stress. "She was a good Blade… Loyal… Dutiful…" He sighed. "We lost so many…"

Oddly the Argonian found himself shaking his head. "Your losses were lighter than most." And even before the ash storm had blown in Turner had been informed of so many of the losses; he couldn't understand why people felt that they could approach him and confide in him and yet somehow they did, even people he'd never met, even when he was dressed as an assassin. "The Knights of the Thorn were all but wiped out, and their leader – Count Cheydinhal's heir – is missing in action. All of the Bravil guards were killed… The Mages and Fighters Guilds report huge losses in numbers, most of their contingents being obliterated… Compared to some the Blades walked away unscathed." It was a chilling thought and brought silence down upon them like a smothering blanket of snow that wrenched all the warmth from the room in a single instant.

For a long while nobody spoke and Idari paced up and down, her feet making no sound against the wooden floor. There were symbols drawn on the floor in front of the fireplace now, marked out in vivid black charcoal that not one of the Blades felt comfortable approaching. Even those with no magical aptitude whatsoever could feel the power radiating from them and they kept their distance warily, allowing the flames to die in the grate one by one to a solemn crackling funeral march.

When Martin Septim entered the room the atmosphere did not change as drastically as it usually did; there was a grim expression on his face, and on the faces of the scarred Altmer mage and the Redguard Blade who flanked him closely. Baurus had survived the Battle of Bruma with three fewer fingers than he had started with, losing half a hand to the swipe of a daedric scimitar shortly after the third gate had opened; it was a miracle that he had managed to fight his way to safety.

"It is good to see you," the Heir said to both of them, inclining his head respectfully. Though the words were strained they seemed genuine, but tiredness wracked his blue eyes to the exact same extent as every other person in the fort. "For a time we feared you had been caught up in the ash storm," he explained, his fists clenching and unclenching subconsciously. "You don't need me to explain just how much of a disaster that would have been."

The Hero nodded in acceptance when before she would have fought that statement with all her might, but the battle had changed people – even her, it seemed.

"Are you sure you're prepared to enter Paradise?" Martin asked, concern written in his features. "I know that any portal I open now will close behind you and you'll have to find your own way back."

"I have to kill Camoran," Idari stated darkly, her hand finding the hilt of her shortsword as it hung at her waist. "Rather like I would have to collect a Sigil Stone." She had collected many in her time, and now the energy of the stones was manifested into the enchantments of the rings on her fingers, the magicka thrumming through her bloodstream every time she moved. In her red eyes the ex-priest saw something he would never have expected to see there: fear. "I have prepared for everything that I'll be able to prepare for…" But she was running on uncertainty, and uncertainty was not an emotion one often associated with this Dunmer.

"Very well." The Imperial's gaze turned to his new Grandmaster. "Please can you make sure that all unnecessary people are cleared from this area," he asked politely, though he could have ordered it officially to the same effect. "I don't want any more people than are needed to be exposed to the Xarxes."

With a brief nod Steffan began to usher people from the room into the side wings, his own charges obeying before the order was even spoken; a lot weren't even sure they _wanted_ to witness this ritual. When he tapped Turner on the shoulder, a terse snap from the Hero of Kvatch informed him that the Argonian stayed under no indeterminate terms. What she didn't tell them was that her Speaker was about the only person in this fort she trusted enough to be in the room when she was sent to what was in effect either her doom or her glory.

By the time the evacuation was over there were only five souls left within the Great Hall. One was the last surviving son of Uriel Septim VII, who many people believed did not exist, destined for greatness from the moment he was born. One was an assassin – _Listener_ of the Dark Brotherhood – dubbed the Hero of Kvatch when she had closed the Oblivion gate there, destined for nothing and yet exalted by even those who had never laid eyes upon her. One was the newest Grandmaster of the Blades, fiercely loyal and dutiful even to death, destined to the life he had made for himself. One was little more than a simple mage at first glance, covered in burns and suffocated by his own conscience when he did not keep it in check; he had been destined to defeat Mannimarco and he had done so at great cost, but the lich lay dead nonetheless and thus his destiny was fulfilled. The last was hailed by some as the Hero of Skingrad, though not widely; by others he was addressed as a Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, a rank that he was fairly sure he did not deserve and was certain his peers regretted that he had taken; his destiny was a strange one that had led him from Vvardenfell to Morrowind to Cyrodiil on the road to Black Marsh and had seen him find a cure for vampirism and survive death by a narrow margin more than once; he did not believe his destiny amounted to anything. Every one of these five had made their imprints on the realm in their own small way, or would yet in the future, but only two would have names that would weather the test of time.

Martin placed the objects that his Hero had gathered over the months into their set places on the runes, suspending them above the ground using magicka. The Great Welkynd Stone sat opposite the Great Sigil Stone, its blue aura grappling for dominance with the swirling red and black from the depths of Oblivion. Tiber Septim's blood was in the markings on the floor in tiny flecks, Divine and beautiful, and the Ebony Blade of Mephala lay in the centre, destined to be destroyed; for a moment Idari wished to reach out her hand and take the blade from its position – it would certainly be a useful asset to take to Paradise with her, enchanted to draw power from the enemy before they fell – but she willed herself to stop, lest she disturb the ritual.

With the ingredients in place, the ex-priest looked grimmer than she had ever seen him before. The Imperial was a notoriously calm man, with blue eyes that could warm and cool at the same time and seem to gaze directly into the soul of whomever he spoke with; his voice could carry over the winds of the Jerall Mountains and calm the consciences of thousands of men and women about to lay down their lives against a daedric foe.

But Martin looked worried now. More so, even, than when he had stood upon the battlefield for the first time, or when Kvatch had fallen, or when the siege engine had lumbered from the fiery gates towards Bruma – another city to fall for his sake.

They only had one shot at this. One shot to open the portal. One shot to enter it safely. One shot to kill Camoran and retrieve the Amulet of Kings. Their hopes and their futures rested only on a Dark Elven woman who was short of stature and quick of limb and of temper against a powerful High Elf with followers aplenty and the backing of a Daedric Prince. These were not odds that anybody wished to face.

"I can open the portal for you but I cannot sustain it," the Heir announced, fear cutting into his usually level voice. "You will not have more than a few seconds to enter once it settles."

Idari only nodded. Words would betray her now.

"Camoran will be in the centre of his Paradise," Seanturco explained, his eyes downcast amidst his scars. He had made himself useful during his time at the Temple, it seemed, which led the Listener to presume that he must have found his way here before the ash began to fall. "He is the anchor. Once you've killed him you only have moments to collect the Amulet of Kings." _Before it's lost forever_. He didn't speak it, but they could all sense the missing phrase from his demeanour. "In theory you'll be teleported back here, as you would be with a regular Oblivion gate, but... Nobody's ever gone to Paradise before."

"Nobody in living memory had survived an Oblivion gate before Kvatch." But even that had been guesswork. She had known the theory behind it from her studies on Vvardenfell, but she had never imagined to put that hypothesis into practice. Now she was guessing again.

"Do you need a shield spell?"

"No." She hadn't even considered the matter; her pride wouldn't allow it.

Turner stepped forward so that he was stood beside her. "Good luck," he offered, though he fully expected her to turn that down as well. "We're all counting on you, so... don't die, do you hear?"

And in a completely unexpected and uncharacteristic moment she hugged him tightly, throwing them both off guard along with every other person in the room. A weakness from their fabled hero? "You find Reron and you bring him here," she told him, disentangling herself almost as suddenly as she had thrown her arms around him. "And..." But she had run out of things to say now, even to her most trusted of inferiors who she would almost class as a friend if she considered his role in her life to any significant degree. "I am ready now," she said to Martin, unsheathing her silver shortsword as her red eyes set with focus.

"Would you like an enchanted blade?" Seanturco asked, extending his own sword to her hilt first.

"Not from you, goldenrod," she snapped back with a slight smirk, though not maliciously, she noted.

The Heir crossed to his small worktable and looked at the words he had written himself upon a scrap of parchment. He knew the spell by heart, but he could risk saying it wrong or maybe mixing up the flow of the daedric words that he spoke and offered up his power too. If his calculations were correct, most of his magicka supply would be expended upon this one spell, leaving him severely weakened at best and unconscious at worst; that was why he had wanted the ex-Arch-Mage at hand – he had made certain over the past week that the Altmer would be capable of restoring his energy once the words were said and there was no turning back. There was always the chance that they would kill him.

A breath in, a breath out. Eyes closed, eyes opened. One heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heartbeats, four... Then the words began to flow. Quietly at first, they chilled the frozen room even further and extinguished the fire in the grate as it struggled to claw its way back to life. Idari had learnt the daedric language as a child – she could read their letters and speak a select few words – but these were as lost to her as if they had been spoken in native Hist or thick Orcish. They stirred the air as if they had substance and made four onlookers hold their breath as they burrowed under their skin. The Great Welkynd Stone and the Great Sigil Stone began to dance around each other so slowly that they barely seemed to be moving, rotating from their positions until they had almost twisted full circle to swap places, and as the words gained energy so did they, swirling faster and faster and inwards towards one another, around and around until in a brilliant flash they collided and careered to the floor where a pile of dried blood awaited them with the Ebony Blade beside it looking ominous and foreboding. This flare was blinding, and three sets of eyes looked away in pain as a crashing sound resounded through their heads and sparks of magicka flew. Idari squinted to watch as obsidian pillars curled outwards from the ball of energy, a yellow orb glistening between them that seemed to move to and fro despite being anchored in one place.

By the time Steffan, Seanturco and Turner had opened their eyes again all that was left of the portal was a scorch mark amid scuffed runes. Their Emperor had collapsed to the floor and was clinging on to his consciousness by a thread but otherwise unharmed, and their Hero was gone to her doom or her glory.

Now they could do nothing besides pray for the latter.

xxx

The world that Idari found herself stepping into was not unlike Cyrodiil in many ways. Where the realm of Mehrunes Dagon was afire with lava and charred rocks and blackened corpses, the realm of Mankar Camoran was somewhat more hospitable. Huge trees stretched up into a blue sky – _blue, not red or black or burning_ – and their needles hung down towards the ground, forming a thick carpet as they would in a real wood; moss and lichen clung to their great bulbous roots for protection from the elements with tiny delicate flowers emerging tentatively between them. The grass was even over the undulating hills – perhaps _too_ even, though that was the only sign that this was _not_ simply Cyrodiil – and a white stone path stretched off from her feet beneath intricately carved arches that bid her enter further.

"_Ah, so the _cat's-paw_ of the Septims finally arrives,"_ a voice thundered around her head, and she knew in an instant that it was the voice of Mankar Camoran mocking her. _"You didn't really think that you could catch me unawares _here_, did you? In the Paradise that _I_ created."_

Idari pushed the voice from her head and continued on up the path, shortsword clasped in her hand like an extension of her arm.

"_Do you like my Paradise, _Idari Mortha_?"_ he asked her. The voice was almost chuckling. Asides tightening her grip on the hilt of her sword she did not react. _"In the old tongue it is known as Gaiar Alata and is a vision of the past... And of the future."_

Yes, it looked oddly as Cyrodiil would have done when the Ayleids roamed free, she decided. From the stark white stones that strew her way to the undisturbed nature that grew around. There were even deer here, she could see in the distance, plucked from their home environment to run around this unholy place for the rest of their days. They were dead, she knew, as was everything else here... Everything except one very important person who she, an assassin, was sent to dispatch in order to end this madness.

The more the Listener considered it, she decided that it was unsurprising that Camoran knew her name and used it to mock her. She had announced her intentions to bring down the Mythic Dawn in rather spectacular style when she had infiltrated their hideout at Lake Arrius, and while she had never mentioned her name to them she didn't expect that their leader would rest on his laurels having come so close to dying that fateful day; they had even killed his daughter.

As the pathway opened up into what looked almost like a field filled with human figures that were no more alive than the deer, the voice assaulted her mind again. _"Behold, the Savage Garden!"_ Camoran announced rather regally, as though he were proud of his creation. _"Where my disciples are tempered to a higher destiny: to rule over all of Tamriel Reborn."_ Yes, the pride was unmistakeable. He was a means to an end for Dagon though, Idari knew; no self-respecting Daedric Prince would allow a mere mortal to rule over the land that they had spent so long attempting to invade. It was true that without the Mythic Dawn assassinating Uriel Septim and extinguishing the Dragonfires the invasion would have been impossible, but a Prince of Destruction would never allow Camoran control. _"If you are truly the hero of destiny, as I so hope, then the Garden should not hold you long. Turn your eyes upon Carac Agaialor, my seat at the very pinnacle of my Paradise. Here I shall await you most eagerly."_

A challenge. This particular Dunmer was never one to resist a challenge, especially one such as this. A fight to the death. He would know of her enchanted objects and he would know which weapons she carried, but she would never let him get the upper hand again. One failure to kill this man was more than enough to irritate her intensely.

A mountain stretched high beyond the Garden, an unscalable pile of stones rearing up towards the heavens and shrouding her goal from her grasp with a veil of solid rock that she meant to overcome by any means necessary. She approached two of the figures; they had nothing to lose by helping her now.

As she drew closer the figures only glared at her with eyes filled with hatred. "Come to mock us, have you?" one Breton woman spat venomously as she walked past. They had been Mythic Dawn agents once, she knew; she could see in their faces that in Paradise they had got more than they had bargained for – there was misery here so deep that if it were a pool it would have no bottom. Idari was sure that she had killed some of these people as well...

"Don't we have enough troubles here without you adding to them?" a man asked. He was a Redguard and wore nothing save for a tattered pair of cloth trousers; she didn't remember this one – perhaps he had died sacking Kvatch. "Your quarrel is with Mankar Camoran, not with us poor fools in the Eternal Garden." Raising an eyebrow, Idari sheathed her shortsword, though the expression on the man's face did not change. _He's already dead. Why would he fear your blade_?

"How do I get to Carac Agaialor?" she asked tersely. The Breton woman spat at her again and she itched to run the insolent immortal through, but she stayed her hand; it was not worth the sadistic satisfaction it would bring.

The man sighed, fingering a club that swung at his hip absent-mindedly. After a long pause he gestured towards the mountain. "The only way out of the Savage Garden is through the Forbidden Grotto that lies beneath the mountain," he explained, though he didn't seem too happy about what he was saying, glancing sideways at the woman as he spoke. "Our master promised we would be immortal like the daedra and we are... But our life here is worse than a nightmare," he muttered. Something in the way he said it made the woman's eyes soften to the most minuscule degree, though when her gaze fell on Idari once more the Dark Elf saw a renewed hatred and she knew in an instant that she was the one who had killed her, damning her to remain here eternally. "Only those wearing the Bands of the Chosen may enter the Grotto," he told the stranger. "Nobody has yet found a way to escape the torment of the creatures in the Garden except those who are given the Bands and enter the Grotto, but nobody has ever returned. We have no idea what lies beyond..."

Red eyes narrowed slightly as she considered what she had been told. "Where do I find these Bands of the Chosen?"

Shaking his head the man took a step away from her, his naked feet silent on the altogether too perfect grass. "I couldn't say. Our tormentors take those who are Chosen away, but they would not speak to a mortal like _you_." He threw a glance at his companion, who looked almost ready to swing that pathetic club in Idari's direction. "You can end this for us," he all but whispered, his lips barely moving. "Until then, leave us in peace." Placing a hand on the woman's arm, he turned and led her away.

_Let them be fanatics together_. Idari decided. _I killed them and now I'm to do them a favour? After they murdered the Emperor and tried to kill me a score of times?_ She almost laughed at that thought.

Returning to the path again, her resolved to follow it. Standing out as she did in her black armour any one of these 'tormentors' might approach her at any moment, and she drew her shortsword again. She suspected Dremora and Xivilai and other higher daedra would be in charge of the torture here, and she braced herself accordingly; the Listener had killed enough in the past in order to know what she ought to be prepared for.

The Garden stretched on further than she imagined it would. The trees towered above her and the ex-Mythic Dawn agents kept their distance as best they could as the white stones beneath her feet twisted around in an endless trail. Every now and again she would lay eyes upon a plant she had never seen before with petals that spiked both upwards and downwards; the petals were trimmed in white and filled with purple on some plants and blue on others, a web of pure white covering the inner bulb. Strange things, really, but she had no inclination to find out their identity; she had more important things to deal with.

After what felt like hours, the path split in two directions, one towards the great pillar of rock that stood between her and her prize, and the other away from it. She took the route she felt was logical. Here the arches begun again, curling over her head as though Camoran was attempting to make some kind of a statement of his power. The Dunmer was unimpressed.

"My kin say you fought well at Ganonah," a strange voice to one side informed her. Idari spun sharply on her heels to find herself face to face with a large Dremora. He was a Kynval, by the look of his armour, and a hefty enchanted longsword was strapped so that the hilt emerged over his right shoulder. Though he had not drawn his weapon to her, the Hero did not trust him even as far as she could throw him. His red eyes observed her with some small semblance of amusement.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she replied, taking a single step backwards and finding herself a stance that allowed her to defend herself if necessary.

The Dremora did not reply instantaneously. "Our clan sacked your mortal city of Kvatch," he said eventually, his face expressionless. Though he was obviously uncomfortable using the mortal tongue, he seemed well practised enough to speak it confidently. "It was a simple enough task, fit only for scamps. Your swift retribution earned you much respect among my people. We did not expect a mere mortal to behave with such honour. That is why it is no dishonour upon me to address you."

_Kvatch_. Idari remembered that well, how she had stumbled upon the gate when skulking through the West Weald, the sky as red as blood and burning with lust for souls. And on top of the hill that had once held a city she could see the flames dancing from almost as far as Skingrad, tongues licking the walls hungrily. It was not honour that had taken her up that hill, it was curiosity... It was not honour that made her push between the frantic survivors, bloodied and terrified, and continue up despite their warnings to stay away if she valued her life... It was not honour that made her ignore Savlian Matius and run through the Oblivion gate with no thoughts for her own safety...

It was destiny. The same twisted destiny that had led Uriel Septim VII through her cell in the Imperial Prison on the day that he was assassinated and the same twisted destiny that had led her into the clutches of the Dark Brotherhood to become their Listener on the Night Mother's whim. Not honour. Not honour at all.

"I am here to seek Mankar Camoran," she snapped at the Dremora. The immortals in the Garden had told her she would find the Bands of the Chosen with one of their tormentors, and who better to address than a tormentor who had approached her willingly and not yet attempted to kill her?

"You speak almost as though you were one of my people," the daedra mused, that vague amusement in his eyes again. "I am glad I did not kill you straight away."

Idari's grip tightened on the hilt of her sword. "Give me the Bands of the Chosen," she demanded.

"You are impertinent, mortal."

"Give me the Bands of the Chosen," the Dark Elf repeated, meeting the Dremora's gaze. "I have killed many of your kin before. I shall have no troubles killing one more."

He almost laughed, until his red face twisted into a snarl. "You are unwise, mortal. There is but one path out of the Savage Garden and I alone hold the key. It will bring me great honour to kill you where so many of the Kyn have failed before, but for that reason it will also bring me great honour to bring you into my service."

Idari shook her head. "I serve no-one."

"And yet you are here? In a war that never concerned you. Fighting for a cause that is not your own."

"You are unwise to mock me," she told him, yet somehow her expression was something of a sadistic grin. "It is not my cause, but I do not serve them. My homeland is under threat from your invasion too."

"You never loved the lands of ash."

"You act as though you know me," the Dunmer stated flatly. The muscles in her legs were tensing and relaxing in readiness to fight or run. "But I am not an Ashlander. You made a mistake attacking Morrowind. You made an enemy. You speak of honour, but where was the honour in sacking Kvatch?"

"The honour of battle," the Dremora replied, though a tad too quickly for Idari's liking.

"There is no honour in slaughtering unarmed civilians." She could see images of the burned town dancing around in her head now and she knew that she had let them down, however little the blame lay upon her. Turner had shown her what she had saved, but she had only seen her own failure. She had failed to rescue a far greater proportion of the once great city. "There is no honour in winning a battle in which you outnumber the enemy almost fifty to one, and most of those enemies are women and children. Maybe you killed fifty or even one hundred honourably, but the rest... One of the largest shows of cowardice I have ever seen."

"The Kyn do as our Lord Dagon commands." He was gritting his teeth now, and his voice had taken on a strongly daedric accent as he became more agitated.

Wary, Idari pressed onwards. "So you are loyal to your Lord? _That_ is honourable," she conceded. "Loyalty is a thing to be desired among one's minions, is it not?" She didn't give him a chance to answer her; his hands were twitching towards the sword across his back and she knew that she ought to tread more carefully. She had defeated Dremora before, yes, but she could not risk injuring herself before she faced Camoran. Nor could her pride risk servitude. "Then really... It begs one question-" The question she had been wondering from the start of their conversation but had not had the opportunity to ask. "Why are you _here_? Surely you should be aiding your Lord's invasion, not here playing a simple guard for a mortal who has styled himself as a god."

"The Kyn do as our Lord Dagon commands," he repeated, more stiffly than before. "Mankar Camoran is the means to Lord Dagon's end."

"Strange though," the Listener whispered. "That Mehrunes Dagon should have need of a mere mortal to do his bidding when he has so many daedra around him. Unlimited daedra, even, to match the scope of his power. Camoran believes that he and his followers shall rule over Tamriel Reborn once the invasion is completed, but surely the Dremora are more suited? Give me the Bands of the Chosen; Lord Dagon knows I am here to kill Mankar Camoran. When this realm collapses upon his death, you will be free to join the invasion yourself, rather than acting as a nursemaid to a mortal. Is there not more honour to fight beside your Lord than to obtain one single act of service?"

"There is more honour in killing you."

"But is there more honour in dying on my blade? You will not be the first Dremora to do so and you will hardly be the last. That does not set you apart. I have killed many of your race, including those more powerful than yourself, and your job is to kill the immortals here? They are unarmoured, and unarmed save for those pathetic clubs I see hanging on their belts. That is hardly an honourable task."

"There is no honour in surrender."

_There is if you live to fight another day_. Idari refrained from saying that though; she realised before it was too late that she was speaking with a being who may have died and been reborn a whole score of times. "There is no honour in defeat."

An impasse. She had sown the seeds and now she had only to wait and be ready for whatever eventuality came. Though the logic of her argument had shocked even the Dark Elf who was making it; it was a strange concept for her, to try talking rather than fighting. It was more something Turner would do – and no doubt he would manage it with considerably more success than she ever would – than a path chosen by the most infamous assassin in the Dark Brotherhood. But she could not risk a fight. She had only one healing potion and she daren't stumble upon the lair of Mankar Camoran without it or similarly dying from a previous wound. She would have acquired more, had it not been for the ash storm and the rains that had fallen endlessly and cut Bruma off completely. Now she was stuck.

"You are unlike any other mortal I have encountered," the daedra said after a long pause in which she had feared for her safety. He had not drawn his weapon though, so she hoped for the best.

"_How little you understand," _Mankar Camoran's voice filled her head again before the Dremora had reached his conclusion. She mustn't lose focus on the tangible foe before her, no matter what drivel this man came out with. _"The Principalities have sparkled as gems in the black reaches of Oblivion since the First Morning. Many are their names and the names of their masters: the Coldharbour of Meridia, Peryite's Quagmire, the ten Moonshadows of Mephala, and Dawn's Beauty, the Princedom of Lorkhan... misnamed _'Tamriel'_ by deluded mortals." _

No, it was Camoran who was deluded. That Idari knew beyond a doubt. Even his knowledge of the Daedric Princes was flawed beyond reconcile. Coldharbour belonged to Molag Bal, not Meridia, whose realm was the Coloured Rooms. Peryite owned the Pits, Quagmire being a realm of torture and nightmares ruled over by Vaermina. Mephala, the Webspinner, reigned over the Web, while Moonshadow was the domain of Azura. Perhaps Tamriel _was_ another realm of Oblivion, but it was a realm that Dagon should never have invaded. He would pay for His mistake.

The Dunmer did not realise how severely she had lost her concentration until she felt a longsword at her throat. It was enchanted and heat radiated off it into the skin of her neck where it would have burnt if not for her natural resistance to heat. She cursed her stupidity, until she noted that the Dremora was offering her something that looked rather like a pair of bracers.

"There is no honour in this," the daedra noted, throwing the bands at her feet with a sullen expression on his fiery red face. "I help you only to escape from Mankar Camoran's so-called '_Paradise_'. My Lord will have more uses for me elsewhere." He retracted his blade and sheathed it again. "I have no wish to remain within Gaiar Alata."

Stunned, Idari returned her shortsword to its sheath on her hip. She had talked a Dremora into helping her for free, something she had always imagined to be beyond her. "I give you my word that Camoran will fall," she promised. It was unlike her to make promises, but it was equally unlike her to talk to daedra. "And if we should meet in battle at a later date I will face you in honour as an equal."

The Kynval said nothing, choosing instead to stalk away from her into the Garden.

Stooping, the Listener plucked the Bands of the Chosen from the ground and placed them onto her wrists. When nothing happened and they remained loose she frowned, removing them again and peeling off her right glove after placing her enchanted rings deep into a pocket before replacing the bracer. As soon as the metal made contact with her bare skin it hissed loudly as it locked into place, an uncomfortable wave of heat rushing over her. She repeated the process with the left bracer and the pair glowed brightly.

"_Yes, you understand now," _Camoran gloated in her ears as she looked away from the light and squinted ahead at the door to the Forbidden Grotto._ "Tamriel is just one more Daedric realm of Oblivion, long since lost to its Prince when he was betrayed by those that served Him. Lord Dagon cannot invade Tamriel, His birthright! He comes to liberate the Occupied Lands!"_

'Liberate'? Idari would have scoffed if she wasn't feeling ever so slightly paranoid about the Altmeri voice resounding around her head without her permission. She didn't want to take a chance as to whether he could read her mind, but she didn't suppose it were possible, not without her having some knowledge of the intrusion. With the lessons she had been forced to absorb as a child in mind, she supposed that it was possible that Tamriel had once belonged to Dagon, but it was far more plausible that He had simply grown restless with the Deadlands where all his destruction and every death he caused came to naught. Camoran _was_ deluded; and so were every single one of his followers.

She approached the door with her wrists still radiating light, and a terrible grinding sound followed as whatever barred the way forward slid away to admit her, a daedric symbol in the stonework burning red as she was admitted.

Inside all notions of 'paradise' had been abandoned.

The walls were sheer, unadulterated rock that curled into the ceiling of a mighty cavern. A wall of heat struck her as she entered and a moment later she saw why: pools of molten rock lay everywhere, in lakes and at the base of deep chasms above which swung metal cages attached to the roof by sturdy chains. Several of these prisons were occupied with immortals like those she had seen in the Garden, some cowering above and some screaming below as they were plunged into the lava to die and be reborn endlessly.

"_Ask yourself_," Camoran's dulcet tones rung through her ears. If Idari had had the choice, she would have told the man to tell his words to somebody who actually cared for what he had to say. If he _could_ read her mind she didn't suspect he would stop either. _"How is it that _mighty_ gods die and yet Daedra stand incorruptible? How is it that the Daedra proclaim themselves openly to man while the gods hide behind their statues and the words of faithless traitor priests?"_

_How?_ Idari mused to herself as she stepped forward warily. _By not having lunatic followers like you._ She did not believe in the gods herself for that very reason, however, so she could hardly fault the logic.

Still, the man failed to keep his silence. _"It is rather simple: they are not true gods at all. Julianos and Dibella and Stendarr are all Lorkhan's betrayers and the Daedra are the true gods of this universe. What use are Scholarship, Love and Mercy when compared with Fate, Night and Destruction? The gods you serve are but trifling shadows of First Causes. They have been tricking you for Ages."_

The Dunmer had all but given up listening to him now as she made her quiet progress forward. She did not serve the gods any more than she believed in them.

"_Why is it, do you think, that your world has always been contested ground, the stage of powers and immortals? It is Tamriel, realm of Change, brother of Madness, sister of Deceit. The false gods which you serve could not rewrite history and thus you can recall tales of Lorkhan, a vilified, dead trickster whose heart came to Tamriel... But if a god can indeed die then how is it that his heart survives? Simple. He is daedroth! Tamriel ae daedroth!"_ The voice was shouting now, filled with passion as he preached to his unwilling congregation. How anybody had ever followed this man freely escaped her. _"'This Heart is the heart of the world, for one was made to satisfy the other.' You _all_ remember this, all you foolish mortals. It is in every one of your legends. For Daedra cannot die, and so your false gods cannot erase him from your minds._"

"And if _I_ am a foolish mortal, what is it that you are, Mankar?" the Hero who would destroy him whispered in reply to his ramblings. "They are my gods no more than they are yours. Lorkhan's Heart was destroyed by the Nerevarine some six years past; surely you know that? Masser and Secunda are His Flesh-Divinity and His soul remains in every order of our living. Whether He is Daedra or not is of little value."

Spikes jutted from the ceiling, claws leaning down towards the lava as she had seen them so many times before in the Sigil Towers that she had fought through. She flattened herself against the wall when she heard footsteps and watched as a man in a vivid red robe approached a chasm above which two prisoners hung at a level on which they could simply walk out, if their cages were opened. The robed man said a few words that she scarcely understood and a clanking sound reverberated about the space as one torture vessel was pulled up and the other was dropped into the boiling liquid beneath. The screams seemed to cause the man to shudder.

"You wear the Bands of the Chosen, but you are no prisoner," he muttered without turning around, and Idari knew precisely who it was that she was addressing. Had he seen her? Or was he simply more observant and well-informed than the other people in this accursed place? She stepped out of the shadows. "Who are you? And what are you doing here?"

Frowning, the Dunmer drew her shortsword again. She felt strangely vulnerable wearing these bands, and she wasn't prepared to leave anything to chance. "I'm here to kill Mankar Camoran," she said simply as though it were the only feasible answer in the world.

The man snapped around to face her. He was an Altmer with the stereotypical golden skin that every one of that race portrayed, tall and slim with long narrow features and close-set brown eyes that were wide with amazement. "Can you really do it?" he asked in shock. "Can you really bring this nightmare to an end? Can you really defeat him and free all the poor souls who were foolish enough to have followed him here?" He sounded incredulous. "Listen," he muttered, lowering his voice and beckoning her closer. "I can help you..."

"I don't accept help from the likes of you," Idari spat venomously. For a moment she considered pushing him backwards into the lava, but she decided that she at least ought to hear him out, or he might be resurrected with a grudge against her.

The High Elf shook his head vigorously. "You will need my help if you ever wish to leave the Forbidden Grotto," he told her in a hushed whisper. "No person wearing the Bands of the Chosen can ever leave this place." He gestured to the metal bracers on her wrists and she suddenly realised that it had not occurred to her to remove them. "The doors will not open and there is no other way..."

"Who _exactly_ are you?"

"My name is... _was_ Eldamil. I was one of Mankar Camoran's chief lieutenants... I helped plan the assassination of Uriel Septim... I opened the Great Gate at Kvatch... We saw more clearly than other mortals; we would destroy the world and remake it. Mankar Camoran was our leader and our teacher and our Master..."

"So why would _you_ help me?" She was sceptical now, and fully prepared to kill him if his answers did not meet her standards. She would find a way to get these stupid Bands off without his help if necessary...

Eldamil looked remorseful for a moment and he stared at his feet. "I was at the sack of Kvatch," he admitted quietly. The screams from the lava below had finished now, signalling that the unfortunate soul had died once more. "They didn't have a chance. We took them by surprise but they fought on desperately like they had nothing to lose. They seemed to think that this decadent, mundane world of theirs was somehow worth defending. I was killed before the battle was done; three townsfolk hiding in a cellar attacked me when I entered their house to look for survivors, tearing me to pieces – though I don't doubt the three of them were killed swiftly by my companions moments later. I have been pondering my deeds since I came here... Pondering, and regretting. For my weakness the Master sent me here to torture my former comrades who dared to show similar ingratitude for his gift of eternal life..."

Idari scoffed. "Some gift!" she jeered, a sadistic smile on her lips. She hadn't spoken to a single immortal who had _wanted_ to be here. "Remove these Bands then, and I will end your time here." It was a test, really; she was ready to kill him if he crossed her.

"No," he shook his head, looking over his shoulder and walking towards a second set of cages. One was empty, and in the other swung a woman who looked unconscious suggesting that she had only recently been resurrected. "I will need time," he explained, starting to look a little frightened. "A Daedra overseer will be here soon to check up on me... You will have to play along; I can do nothing until he leaves. Just climb into this cage and act like a prisoner until Orthe leaves..."

The Dunmer's eyes narrowed. "Not bloody likely," she growled, her grip on her sword tightening. "You'll dunk me in the lava and be rid of me in a flash."

"No!" Eldamil promised, seemingly flustered. "I want to be free from this nightmare. Please. I will free you from the Bands of the Chosen as soon as Orthe leaves... You have my word."

"The word of one of Camoran's lieutenants? Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"Then kill me. Nobody else in this cave will help you."

Torn, Idari growled to herself. "Cross me and I will kill you," she told him, no room for error in her words.

"That's fair," the High Elf admitted with a wry smile. "But rather pointless. I'm already dead."

xxx

A cup of mead was slid across the rough wooden table. "She will be alright," Seanturco muttered, taking his seat across from his Argonian friend. The assassin had barely left the hall since the Hero of Kvatch had departed through the portal into Paradise, though whether out of concern or something deeper it was hard to tell.

Turner gazed at him for a long moment before looking back at the scorched floor. The runes were gone now and only a burn mark illustrated that anything had ever happened there. A fire burned in the grate again, dancing to a wordless tune. "I don't doubt her ability."

It had been days since she had left and almost a week had passed with the residents of Cloud Ruler Temple waiting anxiously. "Time moves differently in Oblivion," various people had assured him when he had first grown worried. They were worried too, but not for the same reasons.

"Nobody is more capable than her," the Speaker whispered solemnly. He hadn't given up hope for her survival, but it was hard to remain positive when she was gone for such a long time.

"You were close to her, weren't you?" The ex-vampire had figured that out long before he had felt the need to voice his concerns for his comrade, but he had been giving the man some space while he grieved for his battlemage companion and strove to recover from his burns. Neither had worked out quite as he had planned.

The Argonian sighed. "She and I were friends."

"I didn't imagine she had any..."

"You and everybody else."

"What happened between you?" Seanturco asked, curious. "After I returned to the University, I mean."

_What had happened?_ So much... So, so much. "Miscarcand," he said so quietly that the Altmer had to crane his neck to hear. "We went there to get the Great Welkynd Stone that was used in the ritual... Me and the Hero and... Jena." The High Elf had heard about her when Grandmaster Steffan had commissioned a votive plaque upon which to mount her katana. More of the swords had made their way up the hill in dribs and drabs, but there was still no definitive number as to how many dead there were. And still the Hero's brother had not been found. "I killed the King of Miscarcand," Turner reminisced. "Would you believe it? A lich, and _I_ killed it... By accident."

The mage smirked. "I killed a lich too," he pointed out, though his face fell when he remembered the cost of his victory. "How did you manage it?"

His friend almost laughed. "I threw my sword when I overbalanced with it. Cut the lich in half... Nearly died though," he admitted, tracing the grain of the wood with a finger. "The lich hit me with some ancient spell... She saved me... The Hero. Took me to Oleta in Kvatch and had me fixed up... The people of Kvatch are such great fighters after all they've been through... There's such a spirit in that city that I almost didn't want to leave. I did though. She needed me."

"Needed you?" Now _that_ was an alien concept... The Hero of Kvatch, a cruel, heartless woman, needing help from somebody? It didn't quite seem to add up.

"OK... Perhaps I was more of a hindrance than a help, but she never told me to go. After that we..." He had long since decided to skip over the entire escapade with the Dark Brotherhood, from killing Ungolim to Idari being named Listener; it was not a tale he wished to repeat in a place full of law abiding people. They knew their Hero was an assassin, but did they know he was the same? And would they pardon him as they had her? He doubted that highly. "We prepared for the Battle of Bruma. It took a long while, really, but it seems to have paid off..."

"Indeed. You both survived, after all."

Turner smiled, though it was forced. "I survived on luck," he said, still tracing the wavy patterns absent-mindedly. "I always survive on luck. That's how I survived in Redwater Slough – if you hadn't shown up when you did I would have been drained dry by a vampire; that's how I survived in Miscarcand – if we hadn't been so close to Kvatch my life would have left me before we'd reached a healer. I've been stabbed – that was luck that kept me alive. I've broken bones, I've fallen off twenty foot high platforms, and I've been frozen, burnt, shot... But I'm still alive. It doesn't sound very lucky, does it?"

Seanturco chuckled. "No, not really. But you've always survived and you've always recovered, which is more than I can say for most people." _Like Rush_.

"Perhaps I just have good friends?" the assassin suggested, finally turning his attention to the cup of mead. "Thank you for this," he said sincerely. People had been approaching him with food and drink ever since Idari had left and he had accepted it all graciously, but somehow this beverage from his friend meant all the more to him. He sipped it gratefully.

"No problem," shrugged the scarred elf. People still gave him sympathetic looks whenever they looked at the burns clawing their way over his skin, but he was really beyond caring now. "You loved her, didn't you? The Hero of Kvatch?"

Turner smirked into his mug. He wasn't the biggest fan of mead, but the ash slide had led to water shortages all across County Bruma and they were having to make do. "She was my Sister. Everyone loves their family, don't they?"

Considering this, the mer eventually agreed. "It's true, I guess." But he had left his family behind on the Summerset Isles. He wondered if they even knew where he was right now. "Strange family though, an Argonian and a Dark Elf..."

"Best family I ever had though." Seanturco was the only person in the whole of Tamriel who even came close to knowing what lay in the young archer's past, and even then a large chunk had been removed to protect it. If Turner had his way, his past would die with him. "I don't think she would consider it family, but she doesn't tend to care much for people..."

"She cares for you."

"She cares for Reron," the Argonian pointed out, draining the last dregs from the bottom of his cup. "If he's dead it will destroy her..."

The Master-Wizard cocked his head to one side. "She'll have you though."

"I'm not really a decent substitute for a real brother, am I? Reron didn't want to be cured of vampirism and he resented her for it. Even if he is alive, I doubt he will have stuck around."

Seanturco nodded. "Yes, but until they clear out all the bodies from that valley beneath the mud we'll never know what happened to him... I have no idea how they'll identify all the bodies either."

Turner's face fell. "I hope to the Nine that they don't find his corpse in there," he muttered. "She _will_ kill someone if he's dead, and knowing my luck it will be me. She has a right to know what became of him though, so if they find it I pray they find it sooner rather than later."

"She wouldn't kill you," the ex-vampire insisted strongly. "And I didn't think you believed in the Nine?"

"I don't." He heaved a sigh. "Hard to believe in gods that abandon you the moment you're born and make sport of toying with you throughout your whole life." He swung his legs over the bench and stood up stiffly for what was possibly the first time in days, but he had lost count. "But we need _something_ to hope to, don't we? That's faith, isn't it? It's times like these when everyone falls back on a faith they don't have and pray for protection... I may not believe in the Nine, but rather Them than any of the Daedric Princes when we've got one hounding us night and day, right? For now, I suppose I'll put my hope, faith and trust in my Sister and pray to whichever gods will listen that she makes it out of there alive. There's not a great deal else us mere mortals can do."

xxx

The Bands of the Chosen gave a loud snapping sound as the magicka that bound them to Idari's wrists was released; they fell to the floor with a clang that reverberated about the entire cave system and she sincerely hoped that the three Dremora overseers had not yet been reborn to hear it. Otherwise she would not have much time to leave this place.

"Let me come with you," Eldamil begged her. He had already died before her very eyes and been resurrected once, but the Dark Elf was reluctant to trust a man who had planned to kill as many people as had died in Kvatch. Even she had morals. "Let me help you kill Mankar Camoran. I am no match for him, I will tell you truly, but I am not without power of my own."

"I work alone," the Hero told him firmly, attempting to brush past him, but he blocked her path. Angry curses in daedric told her that the Dremora had been reborn and were not too happy about it.

But the Altmer was insistent. "You are but one mortal," he reminded her. "I have the gift of immortality..." She pushed her way through and started down the passage behind him while he followed her. "And Camoran will not be alone."

Idari's red eyes narrowed. "How would you know that?"

"He is never alone," the High Elf told her firmly. "His children Ruma and Raven are his most trusted lieutenants and have rarely left Carac Agaialor since they gained their immortality... At least let me occupy them so that you might face Camoran on fair grounds."

"Very well," the Listener snapped. She supposed she should be grateful that he was offering to help her, but the carnage of Kvatch was still flashing through her memories every time she considered the role he had had in the Mythic Dawn. "But you stay out of my way. And do not expect for me to save you if anything happens."

"I am dead already. Saving is out of the question." He had reminded her of that so many times now that she was almost prepared to throttle him with her bare hands, but she did keep forgetting. Everybody here was already immortal; everybody except the man at the centre of this Paradise and the woman who would kill him. She pulled her black gloves back on as she pondered, replacing the enchanted rings meticulously on her fingers.

"_Well done, champion! Your progress is swift and sure. Perhaps you will reach me after all."_ Camoran sounded amused at this prospect. He truly was waiting for her to show up; waiting for his own doom. _"You think I mock you? No, not at all. In your coming here, I can make out the quiet footsteps of Fate. You are the _last_ defender of the decadent, backwards Tamriel and I am the midwife of the Mythic Dawn and Tamriel Reborn. If it is true that you are an agent of Fate then I welcome you. I have grown tired of the self-styled heroes who have set themselves in my path only to prove themselves unworthy when they should be faced with the event."_

"It is you would will prove unworthy, Camoran," Idari whispered almost soundlessly in reply. If Eldamil heard, he did not question her. She supposed that Camoran insisted upon forcing his shrill little voice into the heads of everybody here without their permission.

The angry curses from behind urged the strange pair forwards with added necessity until they reached and passed through a large stone door inlaid with the symbol of a rune that the Dunmer had never seen before. It pulsed with energy as they drew near and the door opened willingly to allow them to enter, slamming shut the instant they were through and sliding back into place with a long, loud hiss.

They emerged into a circular courtyard paved with huge slabs of white stone that were set deep into the ground, round flowerbeds filled with the same purple and blue flowers Idari had seen outside and stunted, twisting trees that stretched up into the sky like spindles, covered in burnt orange blossoms that did not litter the ground about their roots as normal trees would. In the centre stood the palace itself, Carac Agaialor. It was clearly built in the Ayleid style, wrought with symmetry at every turn and created entirely from the white bricks that were seldom seen elsewhere. Steps led up to a second level with straight pillars pointing upwards at the four points which would divide the circle into quarters if they were joined. A wide walkway led to an arched door beneath a huge tower built in three layers, a second flanked by two slabs of stonework detailed with gemstones in the shape of a tree, and on top an elongated crown with eight long, large openings that allowed light into its heart and a view through into the Savage Garden.

Two figures garbed in red stood on the stairs, creating shadows that almost touched the further door. The first was a man that Idari had never laid eyes upon with the golden skin of the Altmer and his black hair pulled up into a ponytail; she presumed that this was Raven Camoran. The second hung back a little further, their hood up to hide their identity and a staff slung over their shoulder like a trophy; this was Ruma Camoran, though the Dark Elf smiled cruelly as she thought that she had preferred the woman better with an arrow between her eyes. Oh, she would have been thankful of Turner's presence here, even if she had had to protect him. The Argonian had a way of making her feel more at ease with her own abilities.

"You did not expect to see me again, did you, little champion?" Ruma sneered, though it did not escape the Listener's notice that she was hanging back behind her brother as though wary even in death.

"Quite to the contrary, Ruma," Idari called back, chuckling. "Where else would you be in death other than snivelling with your father?" Lingering slightly behind her, Eldamil shifted uncomfortably.

Raven Camoran took two steps down the stone stairs. "You still think you have a chance, don't you?" he laughed incredulously. "You are no more than the lackey of the Septim pretender. Soon Mehrunes Dagon will walk upon Tamriel and our victory will be complete." Stiffly, he gestured for her to ascend the steps up to the palace. "You should not have kept my father waiting; he expected you hours ago. Come with us. You came here to see him, did you not?"

The Listener did as they bid, though not without laying a hand upon the pommel of her shortsword in readiness for whatever might face her beyond that white stone arch. She noted their glares as she strode past them with vague amusement; they would not be the problem here, especially since they had already died once before, though neither at her hand. Eldamil followed her like so much of a tentative shadow that she almost regretted bringing him along. He would prove his worth through; immortality was not something to be made a mockery of.

This room was just as symmetrical as the outside had been. Slabs of grey stone made up the vast majority of the room with filled in arches on either side and even an arch laid into the floor. Five steps stretched across the room and led to a raised platform from which two sets of stairs topped with white marble hugged the wall and rose to a level above the door through which Idari had emerged. In the very centre more steps led up to a simple throne upon which a blue-robed Altmer was seated calmly. The area was lit by two large, caged Varla stones that hung from the ceiling and filled the air with magicka.

Ruma and Raven physically pushed their way around her to stand on either side of their father with an over-inflated sense of grandeur.

Mankar Camoran observed her silently for a long minute before he spoke: "I have waited a long time for you, Champion of Old Tamriel," he said with deliberate slowness in a voice that seemed to fill every crack of this place. The Amulet of Kings hung about his neck, the prize that they would duel for. That, and life. "You are the last gasp of a dying age, breathing in deeply the stale air of a false hope, as false as those gods which you serve. How very little you understand!" Like clockwork, he and his two children laughed ominously. "You cannot stop Lord Dagon. The walls between our world and Oblivion are crumbling and the Mythic Dawn grows closer to its goal with every rift that appears. Soon the lines will be erased and once more Tamriel and Oblivion will be joined! Lord Dagon will walk across Tamriel once more and the world shall be remade. The new age shall rise from the ashes of the old. Weakness will be purged from the whole world and mortal and immortal alike will be purified in the refiner's fire. My long duel with the Septims is at last over, and it is I who has the mastery. The Emperor is dead. The Amulet of Kings is mine. The defender of the last, ragged, impure Septim stands before me in the heart of mine own realm seeking to challenge me, and she is little more than a girl! She stands before me with one of my own followers at her back as though she has the power to defeat me, as though a simple sword shall bring an end to a man who speaks to a Daedric Lord as an equal. She thinks herself stronger. Let us see who at last has been proven to be the stronger!"

Quick as a flash, Camoran jumped from his throne and sent magicka careering towards her. Idari dived out of the way of it, drawing her silver shortsword as she rolled smoothly back to her feet. Eldamil was not so lucky and it struck him heavily, killing him instantly. Ruma and Raven were more on the ball, it seemed, the former drawing her staff and firing a string of lightning at the unfortunate Hero as her brother summoned the standard Mythic Dawn armour in a cloud of red magicka and ran at her with his summoned sword.

_Stay calm_, the assassin told herself, sending the twin of Ruma's lightning back at her after stepping out of the way of the original string and causing her to crumple into a heap. _It's Mankar you're here for_.

Raven was upon her in what felt like an instant, swinging his weapon down in an overhead cleave that she dodged by stepping to one side, aware of how much stronger the immortal man was. When he attacked her again only moments later, she met his blade with sparks flying, using two hands on her one-handed sword to provide herself the strength she needed to fend him off. He came at her again, wildly, and she fought to keep him in between her and Mankar Camoran, who was stalking about with a staff in his hands. As much as she hated to put her faith in enchanted items, the Dunmer feared that soon her trinkets would be put to the test.

When Raven convulsed with electrical energy and slumped, his armour and weapon dissipating, Idari was almost tempted to think that his sister had struck him with her staff, but it turned out that Eldamil was indeed putting his immortality to good use. The Hero wasn't sure whether she should be relieved or disgusted that he was helping her; it always came back to Kvatch.

"Go!" he mouthed to her as he was felled once more by a vengeful sibling.

Needing no second bidding, the Listener ran across the room, drawing her katana into her left hand just in case it was needed. She felled Ruma Camoran a second time with as much ease as the first; the woman was an Altmer with the standard Altmeri weaknesses to fire and ice and lightning and her immortality had made her reckless at avoiding the spells every time they were sent at her.

Mankar laughed loudly, a fearsome cackle that permeated her mind. "Impressive," he admitted before releasing a huge ball of ice in her direction that was so big that it almost filled the entire room. Idari almost stopped running before it hit her, but she couldn't stop now. The frost washed over her and chilled her to the bone, freezing her hair beneath her hood and allowing chunks of ice to form on her eyelashes but leaving her otherwise unharmed. It seemed as though her rings were working for now, as when the fog cleared around her, it looked like Camoran had been hit by a few of the affects of his own spell. Luckily for the Dark Elf, it was only possible to Reflect magicka that had not already been Reflected. "Very impressive," he conceded, though without skipping a beat he was blasting her with electricity again. She had to flatten herself against the wall to avoid its affect.

Springing up the steps to the upper level, the Hero faced her enemy at close range for the first time since Lake Arrius Caverns. And he was laughing at her. "You don't have your pet archer this time." There was genuine mirth in his tone, enough to make Idari's blood boil as she ran at him, swinging both her swords together to catch him on his shoulder.

Pain lanced through her arm as she did so, and she realised too late how much of an idiot she had been. Of course he would have Reflect Damage enchantments and spells hanging around him. He was bleeding, yes, and she had done him damage, but in doing so she had succeeded in injuring herself.

And he was still laughing.

"I must say, I expected more," he chuckled as he healed the cut to his arm as though it were little more than a paper cut. "You're virtually a child... How you have defied the great Lord Dagon so many times escapes me."

Idari gritted her teeth as she growled out a healing spell, the only one she knew. He had not thrown magic at her in all the time she had been up here, as though he simply expected her to kill herself trying to kill him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Ruma climbing to her feet and stepped out of the line of fire when the inevitable stream of electricity zapped through the frosty air towards her. The huge ball of frost had killed all three of them again, it seemed, and they were resurrected simultaneously. Eldamil took it upon himself to keep Raven Camoran as far from his father as possible, springing on the man before he had a chance to summon his armour again.

"I expected more," the Dunmer bluffed. If only he would cast a Silence spell at her... But she credited him with more intelligence than to do something as foolish as that. Besides, the staff in his hands would work regardless of whether its owner could speak or not. "You don't have much loyalty in this Paradise of yours..." She took a step backwards, her arm stinging in protest of holding her shortsword as her feet found a marble stair and carried her upwards.

_How do you kill a man with Reflect spells preventing you from damaging him?_ It was a dilemma, to be sure, but he did not seem to be attacking her any more, as if he had seen enough of what she could do and was bored now. He would have a Shield. He would have increased magicka supplies. He would be weakened by fire and frost and shock, but he would have compensated for that accordingly, surely. He would have found a way to resist the effects of magic upon his body almost altogether, she was sure.

There was nothing. No way to kill this man except to let him kill himself, and ever since his frost spell had been reflected upon him he had failed to attack her again apart from a string of shock energy that had been almost astonishingly off-target, as though he had deliberately missed her.

_How do you kill a man you can't touch?_

And then it hit her so hard she almost fell off the steps she was climbing.

_You don't touch him_.

Ruma was climbing back to her feet for the umpteenth time when Idari ensnared her with a Command spell and summoned her a sword made of daedric metal with an edge so sharp it would make any blacksmith envious. Camoran saw her coming, but this time when he killed her she did not fall with the magicka holding her upright. She stabbed at her father, her head hanging limply as she waited to be resurrected; he stepped aside to avoid the blow, but was caught as she brought it back round. The cut in his side was deep and the blood flowed freely through the tear in his vibrant blue robe, but the cut in Ruma's side was equally so – except in her case her robes were untouched, the crimson pooling in her red robe and dripping down her legs to the floor was a dead give away.

The leader of the Mythic Dawn turned his attention back to the Champion and it was only a moment before a ball of flames was travelling up the stairs towards her, his previous inhibitions about using magic on her apparently gone. The Dunmer could have laughed; what with her race's natural affinity with fire and her Reflect enchanted jewellery, Camoran had chosen the wrong element to strike at her with. He came off worse for wear, singing himself and setting fire to his hair.

His daughter pressed on with her unwilling attack. Her wound had disappeared and her robes were clean now that she was awake again, resurrected and good as new. Mankar slung his staff over his back and summoned a sword to meet her blows, but it was clear that the weapon was an unwelcome appendage in his untrained hands.

A yell met her ears and Idari looked down to see that Raven Camoran had managed to clasp his fingers around Eldamil's throat and was strangling the man rather like she had wished to do earlier. Much as she resented the man for what happened to Kvatch at his hands, she had to appreciate his loyalty to her cause and – much as she was loathe to admit it – she would still be trapped in the Forbidden Grotto without his aid in removing the Bands of the Chosen. She cast a Command spell on Raven and sent him up to join his sister in killing their father.

"Thank you," she thought she heard Eldamil whisper. There were purple bruises in the shape of fingers on his neck, but obviously they had not proven fatal.

The next thing the Hero knew, Mankar Camoran had been struck by lightning and her helper was dead once more. Her enemy was weakening though; using his immortal children against him had been a stroke of genius, and he couldn't Silence her without also Silencing himself which would definitely sound out his defeat.

"Let us see who has proven to be the stronger." It wasn't really true though, Idari realised as she said it. She was hiding behind two, occasionally three, immortals and yet somehow this man was surviving their assault. He was stronger than her by almost tenfold. She knew she would be dead by now in his position. This hiding was cowardly.

Her fingers tightened around the grips of her swords and she knew at once what she would do. She would be damned if she did, but she rather didn't care. The question was not: Was she prepared to die for what she believed in? But rather: Was she prepared to believe in what she would die for?

But the answer was the same whichever way one tried to spin it: Yes. Unequivocally yes.

She felt for the potion in her pocket with an elbow and her expression set when it made contact against the glass bottle that would, she hoped, save her life. If not, she was doomed to die anyway so she rather didn't care. Flicking her wrists slightly to test how they swivelled, Idari waited for her moment, her opening. If she died here she would leave much unsaid and much undone, but it was a necessary means to a necessary end. All people must die. Men, women, man, mer, beast, child, adult. Everything died. And only a select few got to choose the moment of their death like she did.

She ran.

In the time that she had been using Camoran's children against him, she had managed to edge herself backwards up most of the marble steps to almost the very top, and she sprang down them now with her swords in her hands, leaping several steps at a time. The Dispel she cast over him was strategically timed so that both Ruma and Raven were 'dead' at the moment but Mankar himself was distracted by them; it was laced with just enough Silence to do her spell justice, and when it struck him it rebounded back upon her as she had assumed that it would. But the Listener had planned for it to happen like that.

The Altmer's blade was banished to Oblivion and his two children fell down in heaps a moment later, but still Idari ran. Jumping, she swung her two swords in opposite directions and decapitated the man before he had a chance to react, opening her own throat against his Reflect enchantment in the process.

As soon as her feet touched the floor, Idari went to her knees, throwing her blades aside and clamping her left hand over her neck. The enchantment had not been perfect and had ceased the moment he was considered dead, so she had not decapitated herself, but the cuts went deeply into her flesh and had severed both her windpipe and her oesophagus so that blood was pouring in torrents down the both of them. She fought to keep herself breathing, plunging her free hand into her leather pocket and desperately foraging for the potion that she knew to be there. Her fingers were slick with crimson by the time she yanked the tiny bottle from its compartment, and she fumbled with the top as more of her life's fluid soaked out between her fingers and sought to choke her. The seconds that passed felt like hours and her heart skipped a beat as she almost dropped the little glass bottle while trying to remove the stopper.

Finally, the cork wriggled its way free from the glass neck, and she upended the contents into her mouth as all around her the world started to shake violently, chunks of stone falling from the ceiling and trying to crush her. With the two severed tubes leading from her throat, very little of the liquid actually made it into her stomach, preferring instead to gush from her bleeding wound all glittering in the light of the two huge Varla Stones that looked ready at any moment to descend on to her head. Still more of the mixture ran down into her lungs along with the blood, trying to drown her in her own body, but she felt it remove the red fluid wherever it made contact, freeing up her breathing ever so slightly. What little of it did make it into her stomach set to work immediately, sewing up her jugular tentatively with tiny magical stitches, and it ran along the wound to her neck with haste.

It was too little too late though.

Idari was feeling light-headed by now due to the amount of blood which she had lost, and her breathing was still laboured. Frantically, she grabbed and sheathed her two swords before looping her bloodied fingers around the chain of the Amulet of Kings that still sat on the stump that remained of Camoran's neck. Eldamil, Ruma and Raven were all dead now. They had been from the moment their Master had died and his Paradise had begun collapsing around them. She bid them good luck in their proper resting places, even though they were all still her enemies.

She expected she would see them soon.

The lights of Paradise closed in around her suddenly and deposited her on her feet in the middle of the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple. The shouting started the second they saw her, but she blocked it all out stubbornly as she choked up some of her own bodily fluids and sunk to her knees in anguish. She felt like she was choking still as she struggled to breathe through her newly-healed windpipe that seemed to have constricted itself so tightly it would barely allow air to pass. She tried to rasp out words, but all that came up was more blood and more gore.

Weakly, ever so weakly, the Dunmer threw the Amulet of Kings away with as much strength as she could muster. The edges of her vision were growing dark as her consciousness slipped.

"_Idari!"_ she heard shouted somewhere across the room. It didn't sound much like a shout though; it was barely more than a whisper in her ears, but it perplexed her somewhat. Nobody called her by her name to her face… Nobody, not even Turner. He'd _never_ used her name at all. So did that mean that Reron was alive? But no, her vision was clear enough to make out the shape of the Argonian as he ran across the room and pushed the Blades out of the way to sink down beside her. _"Don't die! Don't you dare die!"_ He sounded almost… Concerned. He was a friend, yes, and she would be saddened if he died on her watch, but she didn't see herself crying over his loss. Yet he was crying. She could tell. _"Find a fucking healer!"_ he barked hoarsely at somebody. She'd never heard him swear before, not like that, but now he was almost… Distraught? Anxious? Horrified? He sounded sadder than she'd heard him sound before.

Her breathing was easing now, but the burning in her throat was almost too much for her to bear, and when she opened her mouth to speak still more blood oozed out like it had somewhere better to be than inside her body.

Martin was there too, though the Dark Elf had no memory of the moment he had arrived, and that vampire Altmer was resting a hand on Turner's shoulder like he cared or knew what was happening or something. The ex-priest stooped down next to her and whispered a few words before magicka flowed out from his fingertips and engulfed her in a gentle film, seeking to heal whatever her potion had failed to allow her to recover from.

But she'd lost too much blood.

Every healer, experienced or inexperienced, knows that there is a certain moment when it becomes completely unviable to waste any further magicka on a subject. It is usually when they have lost too much blood, or when their fever burns too high, or when their wounds fester too violently. And Idari knew that she'd passed that point some time ago, probably before she'd even left Paradise and been deposited back here on Nirn. She would need a miracle if she was to survive this.

She had slipped out of consciousness then, but when she regained it they were still crowded around her as though they did not have better things to be dealing with. _They have the Amulet of Kings now, why don't they go?_ The Heir to Tamriel was leading prayers over her body that would bring her back to health, praying to the Nine, praying to the Daedric Princes, praying to any deity that would listen and heed their call. Faith was something that Idari was sure she would never understand.

"Go," she groaned, and immediately wished she hadn't. The exertion made her tattered windpipe burn, and there was not a single person among those around her who did not jump in shock at the sound coming from the woman they had presumably written off for dead.

Turner was there still, and she saw a glimmer of courage in his golden eyes that she had seldom seen before in all their time together. "We're not leaving you," he told her as calmly as he was able. He seemed to believe his words, but she saw in his face how bad it was

"How…" The forming question stopped in its tracks as more blood chose that moment to assault her mouth.

"Don't speak." The Argonian shook his head firmly, and she felt magicka surround her once again when he nodded to somebody she couldn't see. They had laid her out on the floor in a position that was supposed to be comfortable, but other than that she had not been moved. "You've been unconscious for about ten hours," he explained, understanding her rasped question even though it had not been asked. "Congratulations on defeating Camoran." He sounded almost cheerful, but she could hear the worry in his tone underneath everything he used to cover it up. "You were gone for about twelve days. We were getting worried."

_As if you're not worried now…_

"Listen, Idari," he said to her in a quiet voice as the praying resumed all around them. He was using her name again, something he never did. Why? "Don't die. You can't die. We still need you. We've got to light the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One, and I don't know if we can win without you there… Nobody else could have made it out of Paradise alive, but you did." Telling someone not to die was a fairly useless endeavour. It was like telling someone not to breathe for a while, or telling the wind not to blow or the snow not to fall. But the Hero understood his meaning, and she was almost grateful for his presence near her as she lay slowly dying. The healers would be telling him that the worst was past now, that she was almost completely likely to survive, but she didn't _feel_ like she was in the process of surviving. "I…" Turner mumbled. If he had had skin and warm blood, Idari imagined he would be blushing right now. "I need you. I barely ate when you were away, barely slept, barely drank… You're my Sister, and I'd be dead without you. Several times over, as it happens. Please don't leave me to face the Imperial City alone…"

And for the first time in her life, Idari Mortha felt touched.

* * *

_Author Note: Well, there are a few reasons why this chapter was so very delayed... Firstly, it's long. Extremely long. 15,450 words without author notes. Secondly, half term... A blot of two weeks in my life in which I had very little access to a computer. Thirdly, I have only played this quest once in my life and that was over a year ago, so it took on an extra degree of research and imagination... But I rather like how it turned out. Fourthly, I was waiting: **Happy Birthday DualKatanas! :)**_

_This'un here is the penultimate chapter. As you can probably tell, it's long because I was having difficulties letting go. The Battle of the IC is the only thing left, isn't it? It's rather depressing, after a year and a half writing this thing. I'm attached to my characters._

_Ah, and I couldn't finish this chapter without mentioning **HunterAzrael**, who took the time to review all 47 chapters in, it must be said, a very short time. Thank you. And **Ferus Demens**, for the kind review :) And to, er... **ALL my reviewers**, for helping me reach 400 reviews. It's a feat achieved by only 3 stories in the whole fandom, so I'm... Chuffed. **Thank you all**_

_Oh, and there's a poll on my profile. Please go and vote on it..._


	49. Light The Dragonfires

_Quote: **Let ****me ****bid ****you ****farewell, ****every ****man ****has ****to ****die.****But ****it****'****s ****written ****in ****the ****starlight ****and ****every ****line ****on ****your ****palm****… ****We****'****re ****fools ****to ****make ****war ****on ****our ****brothers ****in ****arms** – Brothers in Arms – Dire Straits (That I didn't realise existed until after I posted this, bizarrely)_

* * *

_Chapter 49_

"_Please __don__'__t __die_," Turner whispered for what felt like the millionth time, though he wasn't sure if Idari could even hear him. She had been slipping in and out of consciousness for hours now, and the Blades had long since abandoned her to go back to their duties. At some point somebody had carried a bedroll through from the sleeping quarters and placed her on it, but the Argonian couldn't even recall when that had happened.

"She's strong," Martin had told him once after they had stemmed the bleeding from her throat. But if she was so strong, why was she dying? He could hear the pain she was in with every breath she took as it rattled over her broken vocal chords, and every now and then she would continue to cough up blood as though her wound had opened again. "She'll pull through."

None of the Blades were really concerned about the Hero of Kvatch anymore though. They had prayed over her for a few hours, thanking their gods for helping her to bring back the Amulet of Kings, but now their primary point of concern was how they were going to light the Dragonfires and she was pushed to the back of their minds and forgotten. _Some __gratitude_…

Still, Turner had hardly expected life at Cloud Ruler Temple to grind to a halt just because of one injured Dunmer who, in all honesty, they almost all hated anyway. She had not done very well at making _anybody_ in this province enjoy her company; she was even rude to her Speaker, her only friend for a reason that was beyond the both of them. And the Dragonfires _were_ a point of concern right now, with a large-scale daedric invasion imminent upon their horizons. They could hardly presume to predict the strategies of a Daedric Prince, and thus their preparations had had to take all shapes and sizes to accommodate for the threat.

Idari's red eyes slid open as he watched her. They were almost deader than he'd ever seen them before, pits that had lost their spark some time in the past. He still had no idea how she'd managed to stumble back with a slashed throat. She stared at him for a moment, and then eased herself up onto her elbows, the exertions making her wheeze loudly as though she were vastly unfit. The scar on her throat was barely visible against her dark blue skin and shrouded beneath the black leather she always wore; it was a twisting red line that almost stretched from one side to the other in a fairly smooth line, only the indentation it left was any indication of just how deeply it had cut her.

In a way, the Argonian could almost empathise with Seanturco now. The Altmer had watched his friend and primary protector die a slow and painful death in much the same way as he was waiting for his Listener to die now. But he hoped and prayed for her recovery all the same.

"Where…?" Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, despite how much air she had tried to force from her lungs. The organs were failing her in much the same way as they had failed Rush gra-Yazgash. They were almost impossible to heal when it came down to it.

"Martin's in his Chambers," Turner answered her swiftly, and she looked fairly impressed with the fact that he had guessed her entire question from a single word.

She climbed to her feet and staggered slightly, weakened by all that she had been through. The healers had said that the blood loss would not be an issue after a few hours, but they had never said anything about it taking its toll on her body or not. When her friend took hold of her arm to steady her she looked almost stunned, but she did nothing to remove herself from his grasp. Beneath her hood, Turner saw that she was almost smiling… _Almost_.

_What __happened __to __you?_ His brain asked her again and again and again until finally his lips formed the words. He had not wanted to put any questions to her, given how little she could speak at the moment, but his curiosity was burning savagely.

"Reflect Damage," the woman hissed in reply, and with her free hand she drew a line across her neck as though she were slitting it with a dagger, all the while grinning at him darkly.

Golden eyes widened. "You slit his throat?" But she shook her head at that. "_Decapitated_ Mankar Camoran?" he gasped and she nodded happily. "How did you manage it? Did your enchanted things work?" Her head bobbed up and down again, but she made no attempt to answer his first question. Too many words for her sore throat, he assumed. "I'm proud of you," he told her, and he meant every word of it. She looked shocked. "Nobody else could have done that. Nobody else _would_ have done that. You could have died!"

Idari shrugged. "Sacrifices," she growled, her voice sounding rawer by the minute.

The Blades they passed were used to the sight of them together by now, but they looked like a strange couple as Turner supported the Dark Elf up the walkway towards the Royal Chambers. Usually she did her utmost not to rely on anybody – nor let them touch her, but that was a different matter – and now she was practically being held upright. She could have managed the walk on her own, yes, but she would have been wobbling on shaky legs and her progress would have been slow. They muttered praise and thanks to her as she made her unsteady path past them, but she ignored it fervently.

The pair heard the voices from inside Martin's rooms before they even reached the door. Steffan was there, they made out, and Baurus, by the sounds of it, but other than that it was hard to make out just who was being involved in these plans to travel to the Imperial City. The Blade on the door looked positively haggard, and had a huge scar running from her left cheek to her right shoulder; though it was hard to tell when she was wearing her helmet, it looked as though she had lost part or all of her left ear, but she snapped to attention nonetheless and permitted them to enter unhindered.

"I am glad to see you on your feet," Martin said warmly to Idari as they stepped inside. As a priest, the young Emperor had not had time for luxury items, and it showed in the way that he had arranged his room. Apart from the size of it, there was nothing to symbolise that it belonged to the Heir to all Tamriel; the bed was dressed with the same coarse sheets and thick woollen blankets that the soldiers used downstairs and the numerous drawers and closets stood empty save for some robes that Jauffre had insisted that he wear should he ever go out in an official capacity so that people did not expect him of being a fraud. But Jauffre was dead now, and most of his old wishes seemed to have died with him. The man himself sat at a small wooden desk made of some dark hardwood that smelled oddly musty and was covered in stacks of books and unkempt piles of documents that almost hid the surface from view. He was garbed in a simple grey robe as he so often was when he was not expected to put on some show; at heart he was still a cleric, even if he no longer denied his rather more regal heritage. Baurus stood a little way behind him, and if one hadn't known that the grizzled old Redguard had lost half his sword hand in the Battle of Bruma they would never have suspected it now; he wore his armour, as always, and some blacksmith had knocked the dents out of it since Turner had last paid long enough attention to notice it, though his helm rested underneath his arm, candlelight reflecting off it to throw curious looking patterns on the floor.

Grandmaster Steffan stood with his back to them, and made no move to turn around when they entered. It wasn't ingratitude though, or even malicious intention, but rather just the stress of his new position taking its toll on him. His katana looked as though it could do with being introduced to a whetstone for a little while and his silvery armour was still covered in flecks of dried blood even though in the long term it would probably begin to rust if he left it there. "Sire, it would be too much of a risk…" he urged the man in his protection, though his tone of voice suggested he was losing the argument.

"Now that we have the Amulet of Kings it would be too much of a risk _not_ to use it to light the Dragonfires," the Emperor insisted in a calm voice. It was dark outside and sheets of cloth had been placed over the windows so that the lights within could not be seen from Bruma, but it gave the whole room an eerie feel to be lit only by a few candles. "Besides," he threw a glance at Idari. "Our Hero risked so very much to bring this to us. It would be immoral not to put our hard earned prize to good use, given how much we gave up to secure it. Think of the Battle…"

But how could he not? Turner moved the Dunmer closer to the trio, and only then did he notice Seanturco sitting silently in the shadows. He had not seen the man for some time and had assumed that he had perhaps gone back to the Arcane University. In the semi-darkness his scars looked even more dreadful as the rippled skin threw lines of shade over his face. He was dressed in a fresh blue robe that Martin had provided for him after his old one had been charred, but he did not look comfortable in it.

"There may be another battle," Steffan pointed out wearily. The only sign of his acknowledging the newcomers was that he took a single step to the side to allow them into the small group. "We do not have the men to deal with that…"

"If we don't act now then Dagon _will_ invade," the Argonian found himself chirping in Idari's stead. He was sure she would have liked to have said it herself, but she had put an end to that when she had all but slit her own throat. She was still leaning on him rather than sitting, even after Martin gestured for them to be seated on the foot of his bed. She was far too proud to admit her own weakness. "We are too close to victory for Him to wait any longer. For all we know He may have done already…"

The ex-priest shook his head. "We have heard nothing from Ocato but that we would be sent a bird if some crisis occurred and the Imperial City was besieged. The silence is reassuring. Still, Turner is right. We cannot stop now, or we risk losing everything." The Speaker had at long last told them his real name while his friend had been deep within Camoran's Paradise and was having to get used to people addressing him by using it; they had offered him a place in the Blades too, but he had refused it with very little thought. He was _not_ the sort of person they wanted protecting the Emperor. He was more likely to kill the man than save him.

The Grandmaster's resistance was crumbling. "Sire, I urge you to reconsider… Surely someone else can light the Dragonfires?" But he knew they couldn't. Only one of the Dragonblood could use the Amulet of Kings to awaken the dragon's fire in order to save the realm from disaster. The relic itself lay atop Martin's desk, the blood red ruby glowing in the minimal light while the smaller coloured stones around it twinkled.

"The Dragonfires had been lit for a thousand years before my father died, and Tamriel was safe from Oblivion. It is a matter of principal that we relight them."

Idari coughed. "Camoran…" she started, and Turner knew in an instant that this was something she was going to have to say for herself, whether she was struggling for breath or not. The room quieted to listen. "Tamriel is… realm… Oblivion…" Was she skipping unnecessary words, or was she simply losing her voice as she spoke? "Owned by… Dagon." It was the most she had said since she had opened her neck against some stupid enchantment, and it had definitely taken its toll on her. She clasped a hand over her wound and grimaced in pain, sinking onto the foot of the Emperor's simple bed and wheezing terribly.

The ex-beggar did not fail to notice the innate sadness he saw in Seanturco's eyes when he looked at Idari like this. Was he remembering Rush? It was hard to tell; he kept his silence well enough.

A realm of Oblivion owned by Dagon though? That was certainly a controversial topic if ever there was one… "It doesn't matter that Dagon owned it once," Turner muttered to himself, though he knew the other people in the room were all paying due attention to him. "By rights it is ours now, and He has no excuses for coming here to take it from us, and if He thinks He can stroll through His stupid fiery gates and stomp His feet about a bit and we'll all roll over and give up then He is sadly mistaken."

"Well said!" Martin applauded the bard-turned-assassin, chuckling. "Your speech on the battlefield was rather better than mine, as well," he admitted, his blue eyes laughing. "You are very gifted with words, Turner."

"But not with a sword." He smirked as he remembered his accidental killing of the King of Miscarcand.

"Did someone not once say that the quill was mightier than the sword?"

"To wield a quill one ought to know how to write," the Argonian pointed out, a knowing smile telling upon his face. "I am probably more skilled with a _sword_ than I am with a quill." _At __least __he __knew __the __basics __behind __using __a __blade._ He didn't suppose he had ever told any of them that he couldn't write; it had never been relevant. Quill-Weave had taught him to read, nothing more. "I'm afraid I was little more than a storyteller…"

"A talented storyteller nonetheless." The Heir's gaze returned to his Grandmaster. "Since the High Chancellor refused to send us soldiers, should we assume he will have a full garrison?"

It was Baurus who answered, however. "Not quite, sire," he admitted sullenly. "One of the captains of the Imperial Watch rallied his men to Bruma's aid. Most of them were in my reserve battalion; not many made it out of there alive." The reserve battalion had been hit hard by the third gate that had opened unexpectedly, and there had been less than a handful of survivors at the battle's end. "They are down almost two hundred men."

"How many Blades do we have?"

Steffan shifted uncomfortably. "No more than sixty, sire, but at least fifteen of those are too injured to fight again, and the rest are heavily fatigued." He grimaced as he spoke, no doubt wishing that there were more soldiers that he could spare.

"My battlemages will fight for you," Seanturco pledged, speaking for the first time in a voice only a fraction above a whisper.

Martin thanked him dutifully, and then came up with another suggestion: "With the ash storm in Bruma County, I imagine most of the soldiers are still here, aren't they?"

"Many are injured," the other Imperial replied. "And the rest are weary of battle already."

"But some will fight for our cause. Maybe not all of them, but some." The ex-priest seemed certain of this above all other things. "We will leave at first light."

xxx

The journey from Cloud Ruler Temple to the Imperial City took the straggling band almost four days when usually it should have taken less than two. Ash and mud had made Bruma County a nightmare to traverse, and in some places the flooding was so bad that to even attempt to cross the torrents would have meant being washed away. The horses in the Wildeye Stables had either drowned in the mud, or were so severely traumatised that they could not be ridden; all expect Shadowmere, who was probably distressing the lesser animals further.

A few had joined them from the city though, in their second hour of need. A group of guardsmen from across the province had joined together to help the cause, a keen Watch Sergeant from Cheydinhal their unofficial leader. Twenty battlemages were returning to the Arcane University in the place of the sixty that had set out, and of the Fighters Guild there were no more than a dozen left. Others were there too, but in dribs and drabs. The new Madgod had left almost as soon as the battle was over, taking her daedric host with her back to the Shivering Isles, and many of the other guardsmen were sifting through the mud in search of their lost comrades. Their main aim for now was to find out whether Farwil Indarys had survived to fight another day, or whether he was dead; if they didn't find his body in the valley then they honestly had no idea where he could be. Probably drowned somewhere…

Far above them the sky remained a faded blue, pockmarked with the shapes of irregular clouds somewhere between white and grey. They slipped from their salvaged horses only a little before sunset, when the heavens were changing into a thousand different colours all at once and huge shadows were spilling over the white stone walls of the Imperial City, chilling the air beneath.

A Captain of the Imperial Watch came out to greet them as they approached the large gates, looking regal in his white-and-gold enamelled armour. He was an old Imperial with thinning brown hair and close-set brown eyes that looked somewhat suspiciously at them. In many ways, he looked more like royalty than Martin did in his plain robe. "High Chancellor Ocato is expecting you in the Elder Council Chambers," he announced, scanning the crowd for signs of anybody who might be more fitting than this simple man. When he looked at the Heir once again, however, he seemed to see the resemblance. "I served your father for many years," he muttered in a mildly conversation manner as a small troupe of them followed him through the wide, twisting – and surprisingly empty – streets of the city. "But I was only a Sergeant back then. He was a good man."

"I never knew my father," Martin explained tersely, though not unkindly. Idari had noticed how subdued he seemed when they had been riding, and it was beginning to show now. He was probably daunted at the prospect of becoming Emperor officially; she knew she would feel the same in his position. The Amulet of Kings was hidden away in a pocket of his robes; Grandmaster Steffan had warned him that wearing it in public would likely bring every thief in the province swarming to them like crows to a corpse. They needn't have worried; no highwayman with any sense would attempt to rob such a large group with so many heavily armoured soldiers.

The Dunmer followed the soon-to-be Emperor closely, and Turner was never far from her as they made their way to the White Gold Tower that was easily the most famous monument in all of Tamriel. It stood so high that it could be made out from almost anywhere in the province, and the light from the sunset turned it every shade of the rainbow as they drew closer to it. Idari had never been inside it.

Up the five steps and behind the heavy doors, a corridor stretched around the entire base of the tower, patrolled at all times by guards wearing heavy armour and armed with silver longswords that the Hero of Kvatch doubted she would even be able to lift. The walls were smooth stone and surprisingly clean for something so old, the floor huge slabs of brown marble that glittered as they crossed it swiftly. The Watch Captain stepped forward and flung the doors open in front of them into a huge circular room dominated by a gigantic stone table with what looked like well over a hundred seats around it, a walkway into the centre for people who wished to address the Elder Council. The ceiling was so high that Idari almost couldn't make it out when she chanced to look upwards, the wound on her neck stretching uncomfortably when she tried, thick columns holding up the immense weight of the rest of the tower.

At first glance, the High Elf in red robes was alone in this vast room, contemplating to himself, but there were several guards posted about. High Chancellor Ocato looked too young to be running the province, Idari decided, though she didn't know enough about Altmeri aging to be certain of how old he was. "The Council and I have been considering your claim in some detail," he told Martin with a flourish, falling to one knee. The Dunmer wondered how many of the Elder Council had actually been present when the decision had been made, considering how sparse and empty this place felt now. "Martin Septim, on behalf of the whole Elder Council, I hereby accept your claim to the throne of Tamriel." The Blades all knelt to the newly acknowledged Emperor and gradually the sentiment spread until everybody in the room apart from the Hero herself were on their knees before their new leader. She ignored the scathing looks with an inward smirk; without her they would never have made it to this point – Martin would have died in Kvatch – so what were they going to do about it? "We should begin arranging the coronation immediately."

Outside the Listener heard a huge crash that rocked the very ground beneath their feet, staggering everybody, and the shouts from the other side of the walls began only moments later as the crowd inside struggled to stand quickly. She had heard these sounds before, and she dreaded to think what they meant.

"Chancellor Ocato!" The doors burst open once more to reveal a flustered looking Imperial Watchman, breathing heavily as he struggled to convey his message. "The city is under attack!" he shouted desperately. "An Oblivion gate has opened and daedra are-" He was cut off abruptly as a blade punched through the front of his chest, spraying everybody with blood before he was decapitated cleanly by a daedric longsword wielded by the biggest Dremora Idari had ever seen, his head skidding across the ground as his body fell.

"Protect the Emperor!" Steffan was yelling as another two soldiers were cut down as easily as if they had been made of straw, more Dremora pouring into the room like a flood.

Her swords were part way from their sheaths when the Hero thought better of it and rasped a Summon through her tattered vocal chords, a daedric shortsword appearing in her hands as she ignored the stabbing pain in her neck. For good measure, and despite the discomfort, she found herself summoning a daedric bow and arrows for Turner, who seized the opportunity to fight with something he knew how to use by putting a projectile through the throat of the nearest Dremora in a shower of blood. She ran across the room and climbed onto the table for a better viewpoint and saw quickly that the Grandmaster needn't have bothered; both Martin and the High Chancellor were accomplished mages and were having a far easier time of killing the daedra than they were with their mundane weapons, and twinning them with that ex-vampire mage who followed Turner around, they were doing rather well. Her Speaker seemed to be making light work of them too, now that he knew what he was doing, and they were falling left and right.

"We must get to the Temple of the One," the Emperor commanded over the carnage, and Idari knew at once where she was needed, springing from the table and pushing through the crowd towards the point where the young ex-priest stood. If only she could speak now…

There was blood coating most of the ground and the way forward was slippery – though the way back was worse. The fighting was concentrated around the doors of the Council Chambers, but it was spreading outwards to become less cramped as fifty or more mortals struggled to defeat no more than a dozen Dremora. All at once the Dark Elf found her path blocked by a daedra that was almost twice as tall as she was being fought futilely by four guardsmen at once. Cursing her luck, she looked for a way around but found her way barred in every direction, including the way she had just come. If she could speak… If she had her magic…

She would have growled, but it hurt too much.

The four soldiers were making no progress when the Listener jumped into the fray, slashing her sword across the Dremora's waist and gaining his attention only because her weapon did more than simply glance off as the others did. He took one of the mortal's arms off between the elbow and the wrist before swinging around amidst the screams of agony. The daedra almost had to look down to see her, and when he did he just laughed, saying something in daedric that Idari could not understand before swinging the longsword he was carrying at her in an overhead cleave. She was quicker, and stepped aside so that the floor took a wound for her.

Then at was her turn to attack as two of the guardsmen backed off while the third refused to give up. She feinted to the right before driving her blade around into the back of the daedra's knee, slicing through the armour there with shocking ease so that he fell with a grunt of pain. Given how many times he had probably been killed and resurrected, the Dunmer assumed that he had had worse injuries before.

With her route cleared, she abandoned the battle for the remaining soldier to finish off. She did not have time to stay here fighting, nor did she have the inclination, nor indeed the need for glory.

As her heart rate calmed down after the sudden rush of energy her legs started to feel weak beneath her as she climbed up the huge stone steps towards the door. The wound to her throat burned as the blood thumped through the newly repaired vessels with such ferocity it threatened to tear them back open and kill her properly this time.

She almost ran into Turner when she reached the door. The young archer was unharmed as far as she could tell, but he looked as though he were spattered with somebody else's blood and was ready to vomit. It was then that Idari remembered how notoriously squeamish he was. She sincerely wondered how somebody who turned woozy at the first sight of gore could possibly hope to fight in battles, let alone survive them, and yet somehow he did, and he looked relieved to see her at the very least.

"Are you alright?" he asked her. As she nodded, he nocked an arrow and loosed it into the crowd below, where it stuck a Dremora in the back of the neck. The daedra was dead before he even managed to cry out. "Where's Martin?" They scanned the carnage as the last Dremora was cut down and the fighting finally reached its close. The once white walls and floor were stained a sickly crimson colour now, and the number of dead mortals was higher than anybody would have hoped for.

"Go now," the High Chancellor commanded the survivors. He was weakened by his excessive use of magic but he appeared otherwise unscathed. "All of you escort the Emperor to the Temple of the One."

The last Septim was stooped over a man sobbing with pain over a leg that had been torn off below the knee. His screams had petered out into whimpers as the blood pooled around him and the bright red Skingrad surcoat he wore began to soak up the scarlet spewing from his wound. "Mercy," the man whispered betwixt his ragged shouts, and the room silenced to see the reaction of the bloodstained ex-priest. It was not a fatal wound in any respect, so long as the bleeding was stopped, but it would vastly affect the man's way of life. A man with only one leg was like a bird with only one wing… Doomed from the off.

And there was no way to magically re-grow a leg.

"Mara preserve us…" Martin said in a low voice after a long pause for thought. The spell he muttered was not one that Idari was familiar with, but it seemed to draw all the life from the wounded soldier. He slumped down dead and the Emperor averted his eyes.

His Grandmaster tried to comfort him. "There was nothing else to be done, sire." The ex-priest silenced him with the wave of a hand.

Idari nudged Turner in the ribs with an elbow, and he seemed to get the message. "We must get to the Temple of the One before it is too late," he announced through the stillness. Shouts and crashes from outside were starting up again, and it was enough to make anyone fearful.

A man with dragon blood in his veins met the Dunmer's red eyes head on and nodded firmly, his hand reaching into a pocket to check for the Amulet of Kings before they began to move again.

Nobody stayed in the Palace, not even the High Chancellor, who brought up the rear with a group of battlemages who had survived all the fighting thus far. It had been said once that Ocato was in line to be Arch-Mage instead of Hannibal Traven, before he took up his position on the Elder Council. It showed.

The doors to the Green Emperor Way were smoking, thick plumes of black smoke rising from them in every feasible location, but astonishingly they had held. It took two men to open just one though, as a charred corpse was blocking their way.

Outside, the landscape could not have been more different than what it had been before. Trees and monuments and ancestral tombs were burning, flames licking hungrily at the sky above them which was red as blood and just as sickening. The culprit was clear: an Oblivion gate as high as the city walls was just below them, swirling in a maelstrom of fire and death.

And to the south-west Idari saw what she had been dreading the most: a towering gate large enough for even Mehrunes Dagon himself to cross into Tamriel.

xxx

The smell of burning flesh was utterly nauseating as they fought on slowly and wearily; it reminded Seanturco altogether too strongly of his own body and the day that he had got his scars – _the __day __he __had __lost __Rush_.

They had been besieged by the daedra a whole score of times just travelling around the Green Emperor Way – which no longer looked green in any possible feat of the imagination – and, while they largely seemed to be winning, every now and then a man or woman would go down to a well-placed fireball or a lucky sword-swipe. Their numbers were dwindling, and even with the magicka they were throwing to keep the foes away and the arrows that Turner was sticking in them, they still seemed to be losing this battle. The focus, for now, was on getting to the Temple of the One before it was too late.

But everywhere they went they met resistance. They headed south-west and a group of clannfear sprung on them - they died easily enough, but they were devastating; they headed to the north and their path was blocked by Vermai and daedroths.

"We must get to the Temple District," he heard Martin say a whole score of times as they encountered a new enemy. "We must light the Dragonfires before its too late…" _But __too __late __for __what?_

Suddenly their fears were realised when a Watch Sergeant from Cheydinhal, his green-and-brown surcoat so impossibly torn that he might have abandoned it and nobody would have noticed, announced that their way forward was barred again. Every heart in the group sunk in near unison.

A massive stone statue, some twelve feet tall and weighing a good ton or so, had fallen across the gate to the Temple District, splintering the ground beneath it with great crevasses. A king so ancient that no living soul could recall his name decorated the masonry, a weathered face smiling at them evilly as they sought a way around, though it was not to be. The gateway leading to the Arboretum was ablaze with unhealthy green flames, along with most of the trees behind it, that nobody dared approach for fear of being spat upon by falling chunks of stone and metal, and the entrance to the Talos Plaza District was blocked by a good nine feet of rubble from the other side, where houses on both sides of the street had been shattered by the emergence of a huge Oblivion gate almost directly between them. Everybody agreed that fighting through from further round was simply not a viable option.

As the arguments ensued about just how they would get through, Seanturco fazed out of the conversation. Somebody suggested levitation, but the guardsmen who had sworn to uphold the law rejected that rigorously; somebody else suggested trying to roll it aside, but it was fruitless – the statue had created its own indentation in the ground and was lodged firmly in place.

The Master-Wizard stared at the obstruction. It was big, yes, but it wasn't so big that it _couldn__'__t_ be moved by magic, right? He looked closer as the arguing got louder, probably drawing the attention of half of the daedra in the Green Emperor Way.

"I could move it…" The words took him by surprise, but nobody seemed to hear him. _A __good __thing __too__… __Moving __something __that __big __would __be__…_ An ear-splitting whistle caused several people to cringe in pain and put an end to the talking in an instant; the Hero of Kvatch pointed at him firmly and unexpectedly all eyes were upon him. "I… er…" He choked on the words until he realised that the Dunmer must have heard him musing aloud to himself. "I could move it." He searched his mind for a reason behind his stupidity. "It's big, but it's not so big that it couldn't be-"

"It'll kill you," sneered Journeyman Mebestian Guerrier. Apparently the gods had decided that they hated Seanturco enough to kill Rush and yet leave his snooty Breton alive to plague him for the rest of his life.

As much as he was loath to admit it, the man was right. The statue wasn't so big that it _couldn__'__t_ be moved, but moving it required so much energy that anyone crazy enough to try would effectively kill themselves in the process. The ex-vampire shrugged. "Sacrifices," he said. _It __was __what __Rush __would __have __done_. She had given her life, so why shouldn't he? Was he not entitled to the same honour? Or had his one and only moment of glory passed and expired when he had put an end to Mannimarco?

"Thank you," whispered Martin Septim, an uncanny sense of weariness in his tone. He hadn't even tried to fight the self-sacrifice this time, as if he knew there was no other way for them to get to the Temple of the One. "You are doing a great deed."

Several of the Blades saluted him.

He caught Turner's eye as he span around to look at the task he had set himself. The Argonian looked distraught, and for a moment Seanturco could recall the pain of losing Rush all over again, but he balled his hands into fists and attempted to focus. There was no other way.

"Listen…" It was slightly odd that Murz gra-Yazgash chose to speak to him now. She hadn't said a word to him since they had met – or not met, as the case may have been – and after her sister's death she had been avoiding him like he was carrying Corprus Disease. He met her yellow eyes directly, and swore for a millisecond he saw her wince. "You…" She faltered. If you looked closely, there were a fair few similarities between her and her elder sibling, but only if you knew in advance that they were related. "You tell Rush I'm sorry… If you see her." So she _had_ cared about Rush's death. They had been warring when she had died because of something that had happened almost two decades ago when they were both so small they could have easily forgotten about it. The ex-Arch-Mage nodded to her sincerely, though he wasn't sure if he'd ever get the chance to pass the message on.

"No!" It was Turner; of course it was Turner. "No, you don't have to!" When everyone else had resigned to letting the High Elf kill himself in their interests, there was always going to be one person to stand up against them all in the hope that his friend would survive the battle. "You don't have to!" He shimmied through the crowd. "Can't… Can't someone help you? You don't have to do it alone…" Oh, how foolishly misinformed the Argonian was. They might be soldiers standing at the brink of either their deaths or the end of the world, but there wasn't a one among them who was willing to commit suicide in order to help one insignificant and – frankly – pathetic Altmeri mage not manage to kill himself with a spell. The spell _would_ kill him; it was simply too vast to do anything else. "You…" The young assassin's hope faded before Seanturco's eyes, a horrible sight to see in one's oldest and dearest friend. The Hero of Kvatch put a hand on his arm in a touching gesture. It amazed the mage how she could be so callous with everybody else and yet so tender with Turner, as though they had some secretive bond now… "Please…" His voice was calmer now, but his words were no less desperate.

The Dunmer shook her head. "Thanks," she growled, startling just about everybody. First of all she was being polite, something astounding for this woman, and secondly she had chosen to speak despite her injuries. The silence coming from her had been slightly unnerving for the large part, especially when one knew what she was capable of, but it had also mellowed her to her sense of duty; she didn't have much choice anymore.

"You've been a good friend, Turner. Couldn't have asked for a better one, actually…" _Except __Rush_. She had died for him. "But I'd sooner die than let Dagon win." He stepped backwards, a forced smile on his face; the Hero seemed to be grinning in approval, though it may have also been in sadistic satisfaction that he was finally about to die – she had hated him since the moment they had met. "You make sure Martin gets to the Temple of the One, alright?"

He turned away and his resolve crumbled.

Still, he had pledged his life to their cause, after all, when he had been stuck in Cloud Ruler during the ash storm. He had promised Martin that he would do whatever it took, if only so that Rush had not died for nothing. _Even __though __she __would __have __died __anyway_. Mannimarco had had nothing to do with Mehrunes Dagon, or Mankar Camoran, or the Oblivion Crisis; but she had died defending this realm, and that was all that mattered in the end.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he started to say the words of the Telekinesis spell, the biggest one he knew, the one he hoped would work. He realised altogether too late that he wasn't even completely sure that he wasn't staking his life on something that wouldn't actually move the statue at all. If he died for nothing then it wouldn't be too much of a loss… _But __what __about __Turner?_

The spell buffeted his robes as he felt his magicka flow from his very core to the palms of his scarred hands, where it formed a strange glittering sheen. Words continued to flow from his lips quietly as the people behind him were attacked by some unknown daedra, though he couldn't allow himself to be distracted by the fighting or else all hope was lost. He visualised a cushion of air appearing beneath the enormous figure and felt his energy leave him to do his bidding, swirling into a space between the effigy and the ground and waiting patiently until it was joined by its counterparts. There they jostled for superiority, bashing into each other over and over as they sought their own spaces, squirming into the cracks and wriggling between the ridges.

_All__together__now_. Amazingly, the statue began to rise, and Seanturco manipulated his stream of magic so that the sculpture would move. His store of magicka was all but depleted already, and yet he fed the spell with his own strength instead. _It__'__s __not __like __there__'__s __a __choice __here_. If he didn't, the statue would fall right back down and they'd all be doomed.

_Soon __it__'__ll __be __over._ He could feel it in his soul and it strangely didn't hurt as much as he had thought it might do. Once or twice the thoughts about his death had entered his mind and rattled around aimlessly, but he had never really come to _this_ conclusion. A gallant sacrifice was a good way to go.

_Almost __as __good __as __Rush_.

If somebody had told him that day that he had returned to the Arcane University after his vampiric affliction that he would spend the last five minutes or so of his life thinking about the brusque Orcish battlemage who stood before him, he would have laughed. He still did laugh. It was absurd! But it was the truth…

_Now, __if __only __he __had __had __a __potion_… Well that one was simple lunacy. A potion that restored his magicka would only prolong his death; the most powerful of mages could probably perform a spell like this and live, perhaps they could even survive a duel with some adept magical being like a lich, but Seanturco was _not_ the most powerful of mages, and he had stood up against a lich and _lost_… Lost until Rush saved him. He wouldn't outlast this battle even if he endured this spell. His proficiency with a sword was less than worthless, and without his magic he'd be dead at the first enemy he met.

The draining sensation tugged at him suddenly as his energy wavered, dark circles appearing around the edge of his vision as he fed more into the spell, pulling the statue closer to him with painstaking sluggishness. It had moved only about a foot, and already his palms were sweaty, his head was spinning, and his body was beginning to ache all over from the exertion it was having to maintain despite its every fibre begging it to stop.

_Drop __it __now__… __You__'__ve __moved __it_. "No," he whispered weakly at himself, giving his strength almost exclusively to the magic. He sunk to his knees as his legs threatened to give out and his arms grew leaden so quickly he virtually dropped them. _You __don__'__t __have __to __die __here, __you __can __survive __this_. "Oh no I can't…" _Don__'__t __give __up. __Let __the __statue __fall__… __You __can __carry __on __living __this __way_. "No…" Even his tongue was burning now as he battled against every instinct he had in order to stay awake and maintain the incantation.

The end, when it came, was not as abrupt as he would have liked. His eyesight faded rapidly, followed by his sense of feeling, plunging him into black emptiness, and then, like drowning, he waited for the inevitable, forcing the last little bit of himself – his conscious thoughts – into the spell that he could no longer see or even comprehend.

And for a long moment there was nothing. No thoughts, no sight, no sound; only the steady ebb and flow of his breathing showed that he was alive for those last few fateful seconds, the rhythmic _thumpety __thump_ of his heart as it rattled away inside its burnt shell, the rush of blood through his veins. And then silence.

Nothing but silence.

xxx

Turner's heart ached as he watched his friend die slowly, taking his emotions out on a score of daedra by putting arrows through their stupid little brains. _Someone __should __have __helped __him_. Any of them could have done: Chancellor Ocato, Emperor Martin, that Breton battlemage, or that Orc, or that Nord instead… Even Idari _could_ have done, but he didn't blame her – she was weak enough already.

Seanturco had been his first friend. The mer had saved him from a vampire in Redwater Slough as together they had searched for the ingredients for the witch Melisandre, he had given the Argonian a Summoned sword when he had resolved to run into the Oblivion gate at Skingrad, he was one of the few people who had known even a tiny part of Turner's strange past… And now he was gone. Gone to Aetherius, or wherever it was that dead souls went.

"Let's move," Grandmaster Steffan yelled at the group when the last of the enemy were hacked down in a shower of blood and flesh. He virtually stepped _over_ Seanturco's corpse to get to the gate, and the Speaker's fists clenched in response. _How __could __he __do __that?_ Was there no respect for the fallen anymore? Just because it was war did not mean…

Turner fumed silently to himself; arguing at this fragile time would be pointless. He didn't cry, though he felt he ought to. For a long moment he only felt emptiness consuming him, until he saw Idari run towards the wooden gate and followed her without a second glance at the corpse of the scarred High Elf.

The soldiers forced the gate open against a small pile of rubble and the entire band scrambled through. They had lost no more than maybe six men in Green Emperor Way, but it was beginning to show as they were down to their last dregs of strength: five guardsmen from the wider province, a Bosmeri woman from the Fighters Guild, four Blades and their Grandmaster, two assassins, three battlemages, seven of the Imperial Watch, the High Chancellor and the newly acknowledged Emperor. These tired and wounded twenty-five were the last hope for the Empire, it seemed, and fate had singled them out from the thousands and thousands who had stood against Dagon at the very start to make it this far in their treacherous journey.

"We only have to get to the-" Words died in Martin's mouth as from the biggest Oblivion gate of all stepped forth Mehrunes Dagon Himself. He towered over the battlefield at almost thirty feet tall, a humanoid figure with blood red skin upon which millions and millions of runes were dancing in a darker crimson, bending to His will. Looking higher, He had four arms in the place of two, with hands that were almost black and violent scarlet fingernails that would probably have been the same length as a standard man's torso; a mail loincloth hung about His waist, decorated with spikes and coloured only black and red, a similar thing about His neck with barbs that jutted skyward from his shoulders and were tipped in a shade like fire. His visage was a horrifying one, if anyone dared to look so high, a huge mouth with fangs that jutted upward from His bottom lip and tiny black-and-red eyes; His tapered ears were pierced near the base with a single ring of obsidian and great horns adorned the hops of His skull. From one hand He wielded a battleaxe with a head so huge that several grown men would fit end to end across it in either direction, and from another hand four gleaming white razor-sharp bones erupted from His knuckles with deadly curves at the end.

"Protect the Emperor!" Steffan yelled his response, and his Blades obeyed the command loyally, though their katanas looked like no match for the Daedric Prince of Destruction, especially when there were only five of them. Daedra were pouring from the other gates surrounding the Temple, and the group was dispersing instinctively to deal with the threat.

"No…" Turner said to them as they ran away. "We should stick together…" But they didn't listen to him; why would they? He was the most useless person among them.

Only Idari stayed. She turned to him and he saw a glint in her eyes that was somehow different to any he had seen before, then she spun away and stared at the advancing wall of daedra. "Get Martin… To the Temple…" she struggled against her injured throat.

"Wait… Whoa… Idari! No!" He realised what she meant to do with a horrible thump as his spirits hit the ground, and all she did was smirk. "I can't… You're the Hero… You…"

She silenced him. "A hero… is someone who… does something brave." But _he_ had told _her_ that! Back in Kvatch before she had developed a sense of purpose and before she had saved his life again and before the Battle of Bruma.

"But you're the Hero of Kvatch…"

"Just… a name."

"Idari!" She was itching to run away, he could tell, and looking over her shoulder he saw the woman from the Fighters Guild go down when a sword took her in the chest. "I can't lose you… Not after…" _Not __after __losing __Seanturco_.

The Dunmer stood on tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Good luck… Brother," she whispered, and then she left him, dashing into the fray as she did best. _Martin__'__s __Champion_.

But where _was_ Martin? Glancing around, Turner saw the Emperor in the process of frying some Dremora where he stood as more closed in to circle him, and when he looked back Idari was gone from sight. _A __hero __does __something __brave_. The Argonian nocked, drew and loosed an arrow that took one of the Kyn through the neck and then began to repeat the action three more times; finally, he ran forward – careful to watch where he was going so that he didn't trip for a change – and grabbed the Imperial by the arm. "We need to get to the Temple," he said, attempting to get the man to follow him.

"It's too late…" the ex-priest mumbled softly.

Turner shook his head. "It's never too late." _And __if __we__'__re __quick __enough, __we __might __save __Idari_. When he received no reply, he ran forward a little, sticking a clannfear with a deadly projectile. "Come on!" he shouted back urgently. "We don't have enough time to dawdle here." And all around him was carnage. In just five short minutes twenty-five had become something close to ten and falling; every man took a good ten daedra with him, but it wasn't sufficient to stop the waves coming or even slow them down. "You are the _only_ person who can stop this!"

Martin's blue eyes widened, and his hand moved to the pocket in his robes that held the Amulet of Kings. He nodded firmly, and ran to catch up with the Argonian. "Do you even have a plan about how to get in there?" He sounded almost… amused. That definitely wasn't an emotion to be feeling at this precise moment in time.

"Nope," came the not quite jovial reply. It _was_ a bit of a stupid idea now that he thought about it. Dagon was stood in front of the entrance, and every time He even so much as moved a whole score of lives came to an end, usually daedric, but at least one man had fallen foul of those huge feet and that massive axe, and that was before one took into account the daedra swarming around Him. "But we only have to make it to the door, don't we?" The Temple was unscathed even though all around it buildings were burning; any flames that so much as touched it were extinguished by some abnormal force that seemed to surround it, and any daedra that approached it shied away again like there was something there that terrified them so significantly that even they who did not fear death would not go near. "We could always run…"

"Dash madly towards a horde of daedra who are baying for our blood and their leader, the Prince of Destruction?" The Emperor chuckled. "That's about the best plan we have, isn't it?"

"Yeah… Yeah, I would say it was." Turner had an arrow half drawn, and his quiver had replenished itself while he had been speaking with Idari before she had vanished. At his hip still swung the sword he prayed he would not have any further reason to use, and over his shoulder his old iron bow was slung casually for use when this Summoned one faded.

Who was still alive now? Steffan was there amid a crowd of daedra, blade moving so fast that it was in a blur as he cut them down one by one by one. The three battlemages were formidable and looked almost unscathed, one always giving covering fire while the others leapt in with weapons. High Chancellor Ocato was somewhere too; his time in the Mages Guild had paid off, and he had not been lightly granted the title of Master-Wizard. The Argonian was sure he even saw a couple of guardsmen somehow managing to stay alive with their crude weapons and battered armour, though he couldn't be certain. Idari, he noted, was nowhere to be seen.

"You still have magic left, don't you?" Martin nodded. "Good. If I die, don't stop. I've been saved a few too many times by now and I think the gods are trying to tell me something…" He paused for a moment before another thought struck him. "Stay close to the Temple walls… They don't go there." The Imperial nodded again. "Oh, and don't die… That would be bad."

The ex-priest smirked. "I'll try my best," he assured him, taking the lead in their haphazard, spur-of-the-moment plan that was almost doomed to end in complete and utter disaster.

At first they were relatively untroubled, given that they were running through the middle of a war zone in which the enemy outnumbered them by what appeared to be fifty to one and growing. Apparently the people they had left behind were doing a good enough job of providing their unwilling services as a distraction for a single Imperial and a single Argonian to try and slip around to the door. After a while, though, and as they had feared, the daedra began to notice them all the more, and they skirted closer and closer to the Temple walls, not daring to stop for a moment unless they should be ambushed and killed.

Finally, when they were just a hair's breadth from the white stone walls, a Dremora decided to challenge them, hefting a two-handed longsword in one hand and armoured from head to toe in black obsidian. He charged with abnormal speed, and Turner's arrows did little more than strike a glancing blow across his breastplate and then across his helm and gorget. The magic Martin shot in his direction did little better, and fizzled out half-heartedly when it hit after glowing for only a fraction of a second.

"Run!" Turner shouted, fumbling for his sword. "You have to get there…" For a second he feared that the Emperor had not heard him or had chosen not to listen, but he departed a moment later at a sprint. Backed against the wall, the Speaker only prayed to whoever would listen, and at that precise moment all his prayers were aimed at Sithis and the Night Mother – the only god who had ever shown him enough mercy to let him live without him somehow coming off massively worse for wear.

_Save __me __Sithis__… __Help __me __Night __Mother__… __Save __Idari__… __She __doesn__'__t __deserve __to __die __this __way_. _Watch __over __Seanturco __when __he __joins __You __in __the __Void. __Keep __Martin __alive__…_ His prayers were interrupted as a massive sword swung in an overhead cleave towards him, and instead of disillusioning himself with thoughts of trying to parry the blow he chose to step aside so late that he felt the air against his face as it cut past him through the exact space that his body had occupied only instants beforehand. _I __can__'__t __fight __a __Dremora. __I __couldn__'__t __even __beat __a __netch __in __a __swordfight_. He jumped aside again, reeling and flinching as his back pressed against the masonry behind him, trapping him in a small corner. _Night __Mother __have __mercy__…_ He forced his eyes shut and thrust his sword forward with his full weight behind it, stunned when it struck… something, and even more stunned when it was followed by a roar of pain. _By __Sithis__… __Could __it __be__…__?_ He actively had to command his eyes to open again, and when he did they widened in surprise. He had impaled the Dremora…

_How in the name of Azura's pet slaughterfish did I manage that?_

It wasn't until the daedra had slumped to the floor that he remembered that daedric steel made the sharpest weapons anywhere, and his appreciation for the weapon he had taken so very long ago soared. Grimacing, he tore the blade from the corpse and took off running again, searching for Martin. Most amazing of all, perhaps, was that the gods had heard his prayer; in all the years that he had been alive they had failed him over and over and over until now – until the very end.

The door of the Temple of the One creaked a little in the distance and he knew that at least the Emperor was safe, breathing a small short-lived sigh of relief until he realised that now he was alone with a swarm of Dagon's minions and the Daedric Prince Himself, so tall and terrifying that Turner didn't even want to look up to check if He was looking at him.

_Help __me __Sithis_. Dagon took a step, and when He did the entire province shook like the most violent of earthquakes. The Argonian attempted to focus on His feet so that he would not be crushed, but every time he did he put himself at risk of being swarmed. _What __is __He __doing?_ He looked skywards and saw that the Daedra was advancing towards the Temple, fear ripping into his stomach until he felt sick. _Martin__…_

Desperately, the Speaker whispered the words of the only spell he knew and a second later he was invisible and felt somewhat safer. He weaved between the creatures of Oblivion, taking as much care as he could not to touch any them on his way past, and skirted close to the Temple door as Dagon took another step and almost shook him from his feet. _Most __gracious __Unholy __Matron__…_ Heart pounding, Turner barrelled into the wooden door with so much force that he almost fell straight through it, breaking his enchantment and propelling himself forward.

He had only been in the Temple of the One once before, when he had visited Jeelius just before he had met Seanturco, and structurally nothing had changed. Martin stood in the very centre of the room beneath the oculus in the dome of the ceiling with the Amulet of Kings clasped in his hands. As the Argonian entered he looked up fearfully, but there was only determination in his blue eyes as far as the ex-beggar could see.

"What…?"

The Emperor explained his plan as quickly as he could. "The Amulet of Kings was given to mortals by Akatosh…" Turner snapped around and slammed the Temple door shut, leaning on it with all his weight before a daedroth smashed into the other side, splintering the wood. "It contains His divine power. I know now what I was born to do…"

With a deafening crash, Dagon's war-axe ripped the dome from the Temple as simply as though it had been made of soft cheese, throwing the Speaker to the ground and scattering stones everywhere. Frantically, and yet with surprising poise, Martin spoke a few Ayleid words that shattered the Amulet into a million tiny red fragments that glittered for a minute fraction of a second before irradiating so brightly that Turner had to cover his eyes with his gloved hands to stop himself being blinded as he scrambled back against the wall.

When he looked back the Imperial was gone and the majority of the rest of the room lay in ruins; Dagon was inside and the walls had collapsed, and high in the sky he saw something glowing a brilliant gold amid the black smoke. _Sithis__…_ But it wasn't Sithis, was it? _Akatosh!_ Turner corrected himself as the shape of a mighty dragon came into view, born of fire with a wingspan larger than the White Gold Tower was high. _Martin__…_ He tried to think as the dragon threw back its mighty head and roared. _Martin __broke __the __Amulet__…_ Dagon took a swing at the dragon with His huge axe, but the more agile creature moved aside with only the simplest flap of its wings. _Only __those __of __Dragonblood __can __wear __the __Amulet __of __Kings__…_ The Argonian had to look away as the dragon swooped so close to him that he could feel the heat radiating from its body. _The __Amulet __of __Kings __was __given __to __mortals __by __Akatosh. __It __contains __His __divine __power__…_

He looked up at the flaming beast as it grappled with Dagon and gasped. _Martin __turned __into __a __dragon_. Not just any dragon, no… This was the Avatar of Akatosh that he had read about so very long ago when he was still living in Anvil with Quill-Weave, before Idari and before Seanturco and before he had been forced to become a hero. Things were simpler then. And if 'then' had continued for him, he would most certainly be dead 'now'.

The Daedric Prince swung His axe again, and a huge chunk of stonework flew off the top of the already crumbling walls just above Turner's head, showering him with dust as the Avatar looked to be gaining height until it was beyond the axe's reach. On the ground, all the Speaker could do was hug his knees into his chest and pray that this might end well. _This_ was the last stand. Everything that had happened since the very start of the Oblivion Crisis had built up to _this_ point, where Aedra and Daedra came together in battle to decide who would maintain control of Tamriel.

Roaring again, the Avatar of Akatosh plummeted towards the ground so quickly that the air behind it seemed to catch light and burn. Dagon rumbled and hefted His axe once more, but all in vain as the dragon's mighty jaw clamped about His neck relentlessly, tearing and squeezing.

And an instant later the daedra were gone.

The Avatar circled the dome of Temple as though searching for any daedric stragglers before its huge taloned feet crunched down into the soft white stone and it threw its head back and roared. As it did so, the blackness in the sky seemed to evaporate until all that was left was grey, and the Oblivion gates outside vanished so quickly that no person could recall the moment at which they had ceased to be. And as the dragon roared it began to turn to stone, its tail first, affixed to the floor until its head was entombed and the sound died with it to leave only silence. Deafening silence.

Turner felt tears in his eyes as he scrambled from his sitting position and approached the statue. "Martin…" He placed a hand upon the rock that made up the dragon's tail and for a second he was sure he could still feel the warmth coming from it. He had been their only hope, Martin Septim, and he had paid the largest of prices. He was immortalised now; his blood mixed with the power of Akatosh. _The __Last __of __the __Septims_. Oblivion would threaten them no more now, but the ex-priest's death still marked the end of the Third Era. He had no heirs…

The dust settled and the Argonian looked skyward; most of the dome of the Temple had been destroyed, and the head of a roaring dragon now dominated the profile of this area of the city. The enormity of it caused Turner's knees to give out, and he slumped against the leg of the Avatar, thinking of nothing but sobbing.

A long, loud creak from the wooden door made his head snap up and he saw High Chancellor Ocato climbing over the debris, his regal red robes ripped and tattered and his expression one of complete astonishment. "Mehrunes Dagon is defeated! Cast back into Oblivion!" he laughed deliriously. "Where is Martin? I must congratulate him."

"Martin's gone…" His throat went so dry when he tried to speak the words that he almost choked on them. "He… He shattered the Amulet."

The Altmer took a moment to process his words. "We saw the Avatar of Akatosh appear from outside… That was Martin?" Turner nodded. "The divine blood of Akatosh mixed with the blood of kings…" His face turned grave. "Then Martin is gone."

"But Oblivion can never threaten us again…" He wiped his eyes with the back of one leather glove and stood wearily. "Martin is dead, but it was a hero's death. He has saved millions."

"With no claimant to the throne there are most definitely troubled times ahead…" Ocato mused sadly, tapping the dragon's powerful leg affectionately. "But it was not just Martin who brought this great victory about… In my capacity as Lord High Chancellor of the Elder Council, I hereby name you Champion of Cyrodiil."

Staggering backwards, the Argonian shook his head. "No…" he said, ducking under the statue. "No, that's not right… I cannot be the Champion of Cyrodiil, I did nothing… I… It was the Hero of Kvatch, she…"

"Who?"

Turner's fists clenched. "The Hero of Kvatch. Martin's Champion. She… She did this, not me. I did nothing… I just… At the very end…"

"There were never any confirmed reports of a so-called _Hero __of __Kvatch_. Probably some stupid rumour started among people who were sick with worry at the time."

"But she…"

The High Chancellor waved a hand to stop him. "If, pray, Martin _did_ have another champion, then where is this mysterious woman now?"

_Dead_. Turner knew it in his heart that she was dead now. "She probably died fighting for this province, which is more than I can say for you. _She_did this, not me."

"I'm afraid there is simply nothing I can do about that. I can, however, welcome you to the Order of th-" He choked, an arrow blossoming from his chest. It took the Argonian a few minutes to look down and notice that he had his bow in his hands, or that the fletching on the projectile was the same as those on the arrows in his quiver, feathers dyed green.

The Altmer fell, and the Speaker walked towards him as though nothing had happened. He saw the blood and felt nothing. He knew that this was his fault and yet there was no guilt. He had been trying to find a way to carry out his job as an assassin emotionlessly for so long that it almost took him by surprise that he was standing over a dying man and almost _glad_ to be there.

Drawing his sword, he positioned it over the man's heart. "Her name was Idari Mortha," he stated, pushing the blade down until it hit the stonework beneath. He didn't even flinch as the steel bit into the flesh, or as the crimson pooled, or as the lights in the man's eyes faded. _He __deserved __it __though_. Idari's memory was more precious than the life of one pathetic man with more power than he ought to have who had just been presented Tamriel on a platter by the most heroic Emperor this province would know in a millennia. Wrenching the weapon free, he blankly tore a strip from Ocato's robe and wiped the blood from it. "Sorry you had to see that," he addressed to the statue, sheathing his sword and making his way towards the exit.

The Imperial City was in tatters. Sections were still burning, and anything that was still standing had achieved a notable feat. There was rubble everywhere, and blood and corpses. Turner ignored them all as if they scarcely existed, eyes scanning the area for a sign that might lead him to be hopeful. People had survived the battle: three Blades, two guardsmen and two of the three battlemages, but they were all too stunned to notice him as he slipped past them, searching for only one thing.

_Idari_.

When he found her, the bile rose in his throat so quickly that he vomited onto the pavement. She was dead, as he had known she would be, but she looked as though she had almost been torn apart. Her left arm remained in one piece because only the smallest flap of skin still connected it where it had been sheared off just above her elbow, and a gaping wound in her chest looked as though some clannfear had tried to gorge itself upon her innards.

The Argonian dropped to his knees and wept. He had lost everything now; his family, his friends, even that poor childish, unblemished nature that had kept him alive through some force that he had never been aware of. "My Sister…" He looked at her body and retched again, and carried on doing so even though there was nothing left to expel. _It __should __have __been __me __here, __not __her_. The only consolation he had was that she had died fighting as he had known all along was all she had wished to do. He could see her before him now, making some comment about the state of this place and laughing sadistically about it, maybe even congratulating him on his first proper murder.

But she was dead.

And so too was Turner's spirit.

He rose shakily. "Sithis watch over her," he said to nobody in particular. His eyes were red and swollen, but no more tears came to him.

One of the guardsmen approached him, a man of the Imperial Watch with silvery hair and eyes to match who seemed to have lost the end of his nose during the battle and had a hideous scar stretching from his left eyebrow to his right shoulder that oozed blood and pus over the rest of his face. "It is good to see that you survived," he growled. His surcoat was stained red and black, and his blade was dripping with scarlet daedric blood. "Martin…"

"Sacrificed himself for all our sakes." He nodded towards the dragon statue that was visible from outside. "Rather like our Hero…"

"And Ocato?"

Without even blinking, Turner stated flatly: "He felt the sharp end of a blade. His body is in the Temple of the One…" _Where __I __left __it_.

The guard frowned. "Nobody went into the Temple before _that_ happened." He eyed the Argonian before him suspiciously. "In fact, even the High Chancellor himself did not enter the Temple until after Dagon was banished…"

The Speaker shrugged and nodded. "That's fair," he admitted nonchalantly, but with a cold edge to his tone. He could almost understand why Idari was like this all the time.

"Then you…" Something clicked and the guard drew his sword. "You're a murderer!" He said in such a loud voice that all the other members of the law enforcement – which included every single survivor except himself – drew their weapons to circle the Argonian.

"It's alright. I won't fight you." He put his hands in the air to show that he wasn't holding any weapons. One of the battlemages ensnared him in some kind of Command spell. "He deserved it, you know." Turner wasn't trying to justify himself to them, only stating facts. In the background he saw Septimus Serocold staring at him incredulously.

"The penalty for murder is death."

"I know. But my life is a small price to pay for the future of the Empire, isn't it? Maybe you want me to confess to my past murders? Maybe you want me to admit to being a member of the Dark Brotherhood? I'll do it. Too many good people have died today for anything less than that. High Chancellor Ocato was an inept and worthless man who refused to admit who the true Champion of Cyrodiil was even though all the evidence he needed was right in front of him. He deserved to die before he corrupted the entire province with his uselessness, and if I must die for that then I will. Gladly. The problem with all you people is that you think only about yourselves…

"Seanturco was a great mage, and he could have survived if someone had _helped __him_, but nobody did and he died for it. Rush gra-Yazgash died trying to save his life, and from what I saw of her she was an amazing battlemage: loyal and skilled. A young Blade named Jena lost her life on the battlefield of Bruma when she could have survived; she was a noble woman of only good intent and she paid for it. The Divine Crusader stood for our cause and departed from Nirn in the process; imagine what feats he could have achieved if he had stayed away and let us rot?

"Imagine how the Battle of Bruma would have turned out without the aid of the new Sheogorath, Eugenie Corinth?" He was virtually shouting at them now as they marched him solemnly through destroyed portions of the city towards the Imperial Prison. They were burned and scorched and destroyed, and in some places the smell of burnt flesh was so intense that they were almost forced to switch their course. So many people had died… And now only Turner remained. "That woman of the Fighters Guild who died when we reached the Temple District? Her name was Falicia. I bet you never stopped to ask her. Who did she die for? She died for us, for _you_, the survivors. She didn't have to. She should have been ridding this province of the blight of the Blackwood Company, but instead she accompanied us here…"

"Have you quite finished?" the Breton battlemage asked, tightening his Command spell until it fit over the Argonian like a second skin.

"Not by half, you selfish pig." The insult came easily, as though he had spent his whole life being rude, and frankly he couldn't care less. "Grandmaster Jauffre served the Blades for over sixty years before he was taken by a Xivilai at Bruma; he died well, an honourable death for such an honourable man. History will remember him as the Grandmaster who allowed an Emperor to be assassinated, but that is a horrific injustice. Baurus, gods rest him, was with Uriel Septim when he died. He lost half a hand in the Battle of Bruma, and yet he was still here in the Imperial City to protect Uriel's son. _That_ is the dedication for which he lost his life today." The Redguard had been slain in Green Emperor Way when he had thrown himself in the way of a fireball meant for his Emperor. That was how it should have happened when Uriel Septim died; he was merely making amends. "And now I come to the two greatest sacrifices of all that you _bloody_ people don't care about. Martin Septim, our Emperor, the first of his name. He grew up a priest, and yet when destiny came for him he went willingly like a sheep to slaughter. He translated the Mysterium Xarxes when others feared to. He fought on the front line of the Battle of Bruma when he could just have easily have stayed back in Cloud Ruler Temple as he was begged, and when it came down to it in the Battle for the Imperial City he stood up to the mark and offered up _his_ blood to the divine power of Akatosh in order to summon the Avatar. Without Martin we would not be here any longer, but do you care? No… You do not.

"The Hero of Kvatch… Few people can understand the gravity of what she had to give up in order to save you over and over and over. Uriel Septim plucked her from a prison cell the day he died, and from then on she was little more than a key player in a complex game, subject to every turn of events that came her way. Even when Red Mountain destroyed her homeland and possibly killed her family she did not baulk from her duty. She closed countless Oblivion gates all across Cyrodiil. She went into Sancre Tor _alone_ and survived. She took on the King of Miscarcand with little more than a blink. She ran into that Great Gate the day we were all cowering in fear on the battlefield. She went into Paradise and killed _Mankar __Camoran_ while almost sacrificing her own life in the process. She came here today with us despite being too weak to fight and despite not knowing the fate of the brother she holds so dear to her, and she gave the battle her all. And she lost. The gods had finished with her this time, it seemed. She can rest easily now. She was my Sister. She was my friend. And none of you even care to know her name… Where is the gratitude? After all that she did for you…"

"Silence, lizard," the Imperial Watchman said with a face that might as well have been chiselled from stone rather than flesh.

Turner started struggling when they tried to march him up into the Bastion, but all he could see when he twisted and pulled was more burning wreckage, and an image of Idari's mangled corpse imprinted on his brain. He cringed, and for an instant all his squeamish inhibitions came back to him until he almost found himself fainting.

"Her name was Idari…" he told them as they stripped him of his possessions and proceeded to drag him into a small cell with only a slit for a window. It looked familiar, oddly, but the memory came back to him when he saw the bloodstain on the floor from when he had put an end to the prisoner named Valen Dreth. "Her name was Idari, and she was better than all of you!" They shut the door on him and turned the key firmly not once but twice before they finally released him from the Command spell. "You remember her when I'm gone!" he yelled after them, clinging to the bars of his small home.

Finally, when he heard their footsteps fade to nothingness he slumped down on the pungent straw mattress that was no doubt riddled with fleas and pulled at the leg of the sack cloth trousers they had forced him to change into. He was back in rags again, as he had been before she had taken him from there and made him into an assassin. He would die at nineteen and it would be worth it; he had seen so much of life already: he was a slave, become a sailor, become a bard, become a beggar, become a mage, become a servant, become an assassin, become a hero and now become a condemned man.

_Sithis __watch __over __them_. He prayed for the dead, not for himself. _Night __Mother __keep __them_. So many had gone before him… _For __they __were __my __brothers; __my __brothers __in __arms_.

* * *

_Author Note: Well this is the end, isn't it? The end of the whole story. The last chapter. (And yes, I AM aware of how tacky the last line is... XD) It's rather depressing really… I started this way back in June 2010, and it's the first story that I've ever been truly satisfied with; the first few chapters are flawed, yes, but the later chapters… I rather like them._

_I __couldn__'__t __end __such __a __long __story __without __thanking __my __reviewers__… __**CallumDaGrouch123 **__and __**Connor-kicks-boulders **__for __being __there __at __the __very __beginning; __**DeusExfreak**__, __who __provided __me __so __much __support __at __the __start __of __this __thing; __**ZWig **__and __**Rickard **__**Steiner **__and __**Revelation6166 **__and __**Kenathe **__and __**SneakyDevil **__and __**Frankish **__**Inheritor **__for __all __the __chapters __they __reviewed; __**cola1806 **__and __**Idledreamcatcher **__and __**Laluzi **__and __**NoSoundComes **__who __all __tailed __off __but were __no __less __appreciated; __**Lunatic **__**Pandora1 **__for __the __somewhat __epic __one-liners; __**David **__**the **__**Scotish **__**werewolf **__and __**nachosforever **__for __coming __pretty __close __to __reviewing __all __the __chapters; __**HunterAzrael **__who __actually __managed __to __review __every __chapter, __and __in __a __rather __impressively __short __time; __**NameNotRequired**__, __who __read __it __through __so __quickly, __and __actually __made __my __day __with __her __review __of __chapter __48; __**Nachtrae**__, __who __seldom __failed __to __make __me __laugh __in __her __near __consistent __reviews, __and __somehow __managed __to __introduce __me __to __the __world __of __roleplaying; __**Commentaholic**__** – **__**Alpha**__**02 **__who, __despite __not __reviewing __every __chapter __was __a __pretty __constant __presence __both __in __the __story __and __in __my __life. __I__'__m __proud __to __think __of __him __as __one __of __my __best __friends; __and __lastly __**DualKatanas**__, __who __reviewed __every __chapter, __provided __unwavering __support, __beta-ed __a __couple __of __chapters, __and __nitpicked __his __way __to __becoming __one __of __my __closest __friends. __Good __on __you, __chap._

_And for the people who did review and didn't get a mention: Thanks. You all helped. The people I mentioned here are all the people who reviewed more than once and/or made a significant impression upon me. Every review is as appreciated as the one before it, but my reviews page is blocked and I can't check backwards XD_

_Remember to click on the review link once more, OK? :)_


	50. Paying Debts

_**Nitpicker:** I've been trying to find a way to hunt you down and reply to your reviews, but I'm probably too late now... Anyway, Camoran wearing the Amulet is CANON. It's a strange little thing that happens in-game that nobody can explain. I had to put it in. Glad you liked the Battle of Bruma though. Cheers!_

* * *

_Epilogue_

_Drip… Drip… Drip…_

All that ever seemed to happen around here was dripping and festering and finding ever more inventive methods of wasting time.

"They're going to kill you, you know," a guard had told him when he was brought a bowl of thin porridge and a pitcher of water, slapped in irons and left to rot. "They're building the gallows outside." If he strained to listen he could hear the thumping of a hammer on wood, but other than that he could scarcely tell what time of day it was, let alone how long it would be until he died.

"Yeah, I know," the Argonian mumbled to him the next time he arrived with a wedge of stale bread and hard cheese. It wasn't the same guard though, so the comment wasn't noted.

He lost track of the days and simply sat with his back pressed against the wall, his trousers damp from the wet floor as water continued to leak from the ceiling steadily, one drip at a time. He resolved to count the bricks, if only to stop himself thinking back to the battle.

"_One__… __Two__…_" he counted slowly, methodically, but by the time he reached: "_Three __hundred __and __seventy __six_," he had had more than enough and turned his attention back to the rhythmic dripping. "Tell me," Turner whispered when nobody was around, fiddling with the fetters on his wrists so that they clanked loudly. "How can you make the pain go away?" He never found the answer though; not in the bricks, and not in the food he was brought twice a day, and not in the persistent dripping. He tried to sleep, but all he saw were their faces that shook him awake again. He tried to eat, but the food was flavourless and had a texture rather akin to ashes as soon as it touched his tongue. "Why are you here, you idiot? You should have died with the rest of them… I'm surprised you didn't trip over and fall on your own blade."

"Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness…" The sound startled him, and it took a few moments to ascertain that there was somebody standing outside his small cell in white enamelled armour, leaning on the wall casually as though he were here for conversation rather than for his duty.

"Well who else is there to talk to? A jug?" the assassin sneered, trying to get a better look at the man. He sounded like an Imperial, but it was hard to tell when everybody around here had a thick Cyrodilic accent.

The newcomer shrugged. "You could talk to me," he suggested. "You're being executed at dawn, so you might as well. It's not like you have anything to lose."

"Who _are_ you?"

"Just a Watch Captain," the man laughed. His back was to the cell door, so Turner couldn't see his face. "There aren't many soldiers left now…"

"It's not like _I_ have to consider the realm's safety anymore. I did my part."

"I know. I was there." Turner could think of nothing to say in reply to that, but the man continued nonetheless: "Of course… My cuirass was green back then, and brown too, and I wasn't forced to work in this place guarding people like you… But I suppose Imperial _Watch_ includes _watching_ prisoners, eh?"

"Cheydinhal," the Argonian mused, clinking the chains on his manacles for something to do before rising unsteadily to his feet. The muscles in his legs burned as though he had not used them for days. The guardsman nodded. "I knew a guard from Cheydinhal once… He saved my life."

"From two Mythic Dawn agents. Yes, I know."

"Well of course you would," the prisoner pointed out as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You were there too… What are you doing in the Imperial Watch, Serocold?"

The Imperial chuckled. "I was offered a place here after they locked you up. It's always been my dream to work somewhere like the Imperial City, though I'll admit I never expected it to be after half of the city was destroyed. They needed soldiers here, and most of Cheydinhal's garrison stayed put before Bruma… They also, er… Offered me a promotion for surviving the battle."

"Oh." Turner shifted closer to the bars. "Congratulations." He peered out through the door, but the light made his eyes sting so he looked away. "I got a promotion too: Hero to condemned prisoner. I can't tell which of us is luckier."

"You know," Septimus Serocold laughed. "Neither can I."

"So why are you here? No guard has taken the time to speak to me in…" He shook his head. "However many days I've been down here."

"Four days," the guard corrected him. "And as for why I am here… You're a good man, Turner. You don't deserve to die this way."

The ex-hero only shrugged. "I committed murder. It's only a just punishment."

"I can't say I blame you though." Septimus pushed himself away from the wall and turned to face the Argonian for the first time. "All those things you said on the way here were true. Those people died for us survivors, and most of us just plain don't care. In your situation most people would have done the same thing; you and the Hero were close – anyone with half a brain could see that – and that High Elf who moved the statue… When everyone had given him up for dead – including him, it seemed – you were the person who stood up and asked people to help him. What you did after the battle was completely understandable."

"And what use is telling me this? So I can die happy?" he asked in a scathing tone filled with venom.

"No, Turner." Serocold shook his head. "So you can live." The prisoner within frowned. "I'm not the only person in the Imperial City who believes that killing you is a great injustice. Enough people have died already."

The Argonian spun sharply away from the door and slumped down next to the leak in his ceiling that had turned the wall beneath it a sickly black colour. "What are you going to do then? You can't do anything; only one person has ever escaped from this prison, and someone as stupid as me is more likely to fall over than get out."

"You're not stupid, Turner. Not by a long shot." The Imperial's face showed no trace of amusement as he spoke. "We have a plan. Trust us."

"If I knew who I was trusting it might be more helpful…"

The guardsmen just shook his head again. "Stay vigilant," was the only thing he said before returning to his patrol and leaving the prisoner alone in the darkness with nothing to comfort him but the incessant dripping.

xxx

In the shadows, a figure padded softly forward, blending into the darkness as though she were a part of it herself, luminous eyes always searching as her large ears listened out for the sound of anybody who might discover her. She had dressed simply for tonight in a leather jerkin and leather trousers, and she was ready. Nobody was more qualified than her for this job.

She waited silently while the guards lit the candles before they took up their watch posts and then from her pocket she drew a scroll that she used to knock the offending man out by simply draining his energy and deposit him on the cold stone.

"Argonian. Come," she hissed through the bars on the door, and the prisoner within stirred warily. The lockpick in her other hand was black as night and glowed in the candlelight; it had served her well, as it would serve tonight.

The Argonian, however, did not seem to know the plan. "Who are _you_?" he growled at her, his chains rattling as he moved across his cell. "One of Serocold's conspirators?"

"This one is a thief. Nothing more."

But the scaled hand that slipped between the bars and grabbed her wrist suggested he thought otherwise. "You're the Grey Fox!" he gasped, blinking at her face with golden eyes.

It was true, though the Cowl of Nocturnal was no longer cursed. She had stolen an Elder Scroll to fix it and had barely made it out of the Palace before the daedric invasion had begun all across the Imperial City. Count Umbranox had been most grateful for her services and had granted her the guild in return. "This one is just a thief," she insisted. "This one does not believe the Argonian should hang. This one has brought the Skeleton Key," she explained, brandishing her lockpick towards him so that he let go of her. "Is gift from Nocturnal; will never break. Skeleton Key will set the Argonian free."

"And what then?" he asked, his thin green fingers clasping at the bars of his small door desperately. "It is guarded in both directions…"

Beneath her Cowl, the Grey Fox smiled. "This one will show the Argonian way out."

"Did Serocold tell you how horrifically accident prone I am?" he asked, stepping back from the portal and wiping his hands down the front of his trousers so that they left dark grimy streaks. "I can't believe that the Grey Fox would have anything to do with saving me unless they were asked to… Did he pay you?"

She shook her head. "This one was helped by Hero of Kvatch. Hero of Kvatch was helped by the Argonian. This one helps Hero by helping the Argonian." Her logic made sense in her head, at least. She was a firm believer in always paying her debts, and she never would have joined the Thieves Guild if not for the input of the Hero of Kvatch one fateful day many months ago in Cheydinhal.

"I don't… understand."

She sighed. "This one does not think the Argonian wants to understand. The Argonian will follow, yes?" The prisoner nodded. "Good. This one will see the Argonian to safe place."

"Thank you." The thief nodded in acknowledgement of his gratitude and set to work with her lockpick, feeling the tumblers within as she probed about. She crouched and listened carefully; this lock was a tricky one, but not trickier than any she had picked before, and the first barrier slipped into place with a faint click. Moving her lockpick back, she felt for the second tumbler and was satisfied when that too found its place. The third and fourth were more difficult; one was jammed and needed extra pressure to move it, and the other almost fell as a result. She calmed her nerves, and the fifth joined its brethren in no time, allowing the door to swing outwards when she danced away from it.

The Argonian exited slowly, haggard and filthy. His clothes were covered in thick layers of dirt and sodden from the wet floor within, and his expression was tormented by what looked like great pain. "What of these?" he asked, extending his arms towards her. They had chained his wrists but not his feet, thankfully, so he could still walk at least.

"This one thinks the Argonian wants too many things at once," the Grey Fox smiled. "The Argonian must be patient; this one will release from chains in good time. The time for speaking is not now; follow." She crossed the passageway and slipped into the cell that she had come from in which the tunnels of the Old Way stretched down to the sewers, but before she descended the narrow opening, she turned and placed a paw on the lizard's chest to stop him. "This one is just a thief. Thieves do not kill. The Argonian understands this, yes?" He nodded slowly, hesitantly. "The Argonian will do as this one does; if it fights, it will die. Understand, yes?" He nodded again, more quickly this time. "This one will deal with guards. The Argonian will stay in shadows if it wants to see light once more."

She strode forward then, her paws making little sound on the bare stone and even less on the marble beyond the tunnel. All the practice she had had in her time in the Guild was certainly paying off on her sneaking abilities, and she was confident that alone she could escape this place without intervention. Together with this prisoner though? She rolled her eyes as every step he took reverberated a sound around the cavernous room, his feet smacking into the floor and his chains clanking like warning bells, and readied one of her supply of scrolls in case they should meet some opposition.

The first was empty. She had timed their flight to coincide with the changing of the guards, and they were obviously sluggish about taking up their posts further in when all prisoners had no way of getting out. After that, she knew that she would have to be on her guard with this graceless swamp-dweller following her around; even bumbling Amusei had had at least _some_ poise.

She flattened her back against the wall to push open the wooden door between the two rooms in order to give herself time to get ready if she heard footsteps, but the silence was reassuring and she continued onwards, her knees bent to muffle some of the sound she made.

Talking was the first sound she heard; two men, both Imperial. The security had been slackened now that they were short of guardsmen, but they didn't dare leave this way open in case people got the idea of sneaking out of prison, even at times like these. She tapped the Argonian on the shoulder and gestured for him to stay still as she pressed forward, skirting around a pillar and dropping from a walkway about a foot high to the ground, where she fell to her knees as quietly as she could. The Grey Fox scrambled forwards silently on her elbows and toes and peered around the corner at the two guards, who seemed to be talking idly in front of the metal trapdoor that she had first come through. Magic from her scroll enveloped them when she spoke the words written upon it in tiny, barely legible script and they both fell, their armour making a huge clamour as it crashed against the stonework beneath them. She listened for sounds of running lest there were more, but nothing came. Satisfied, she returned to the prisoner and beckoned him follow her, pulling open the iron dome and descending into the sewers.

The smell struck her first, but did not bother her. Down here she was safe to run as she pleased; no Imperial guard would see fit to patrol this area when there were so few of them remaining.

"The Argonian is safe now," she muttered as he climbed down the ladder. When he reached the lowest rung he stepped backwards into thin air and almost slipped off the platform, but she steadied him carefully. "This one will be leaving."

"What about my-" He rattled his manacles to make a point.

Smirking, she drew the Skeleton Key from her pocket again. These locks were easier than the one in the cell door had been, and she had cracked them in only a couple of minutes. When he was free, the Argonian dropped his fetters into the sewerage below and rubbed his wrists gratefully.

"Thank you," he said to her in appreciation. "Do you-?" He stopped, changing his mind. "What's your name?"

The thief only laughed. "The Argonian has said: This one is Grey Fox."

"I know, but-"

She shook her head. "Grey Fox is illusion. For Grey Fox to tell its name is like assassin telling of location of sanctuary – is not done unless assassin is stupid. The Argonian will follow sewers, and this one will disappear. Many things in prison worth stealing."

When she left him, she never looked back.

xxx

_What in Malacath's name is taking that man so long?_

Murz paced back and forth impatiently, her brand new armour creating out-of-tune melodies as she did so. In the end it had been good for her that Raminus Polus had kept so many battlemages back in the University rather than sending the lot to Bruma; at least it meant she could slip away relatively unnoticed. Only she and Mebestian Guerrier had made it back alive out of those who had been sent away, a fact that vexed her greatly, and now to add insult to injury the younger recruits seemed to treat her like some kind of deity. While the Breton had welcomed – and likely encouraged - the attention, Murz had simply told them brusquely where to go.

She walked up and down twice more before giving up and heading down to the water's edge. Lake Rumare was normally beautiful at this time of year when all the trees were turning red and orange and brown and the days were getting shorter, but this time it was choked up with black soot from the battle; half the city had burned for three days – there was simply no escaping the adverse consequences.

Drawing her sword, she drove its point into the soft sand and sunk down beside it, marvelling at the way it glittered in the starlight. Dusk had passed almost four hours ago and she knew that by now it was likely to be either extremely late or extremely early. She wondered if her sister would have done what she was about to do now and realised she didn't know; she had been too young to know her sister before she left and too stubborn to forgive her for leaving before she died.

She regretted that now. She would always regret it.

A long, piercing creak split through the night air and she sprang to her feet, grabbing her sword and returning to the grate. An Argonian was there; the one she had helped to arrest for murdering High Chancellor Ocato. He was bleeding, by the looks of it, from what appeared to be a bite mark on his arm, and the rest of him was covered from head to toe in grime and sludge, his green scales almost black in the moonlight.

"Who are you?" he asked in shock, noticing his wound for the first time and clapping a filthy hand over it to stem the flow of blood.

Murz sheathed her blade over her shoulder to show that she meant him no harm, and hit him with a healing spell before she answered. "My name is Murz gra-Yazgash," she said proudly. She hadn't used her true surname in many years and it rolled off her tongue awkwardly.

His golden eyes narrowed as he inspected his arm. "Serocold sent you then?"

She shrugged. "I sent myself. The Imperial was the only person with the tenacity to _suggest_ helping you, but it is my choice to be here and mine alone."

"I've never met you before in my life…" he pointed out.

It was true. He had been an amicable person between the two battles and had tried to speak to most of the people who travelled with them from Bruma to the Imperial City, but Murz had avoided him, largely because of the fact that he was good friends with the Altmer who had been Rush's ward. "That's fair," she stated.

"And why are _you_ helping me?" He sounded exasperated, as though he had had this conversation before. He probably had, if Septimus Serocold had had anything to do with it; from what she had seen of the Imperial, he had a way of inspiring people to help him, as well as a faultlessly optimistic personality. He was also better with a sword than most of the idiots guarding this city, so Murz didn't mind sharing his company if only to spar with him.

She considered his question carefully. "You were friends with that High Elf, and that High Elf was in my sister's protection. She's dead now, and so is he, so I figured that… In helping you, I'd be helping her."

"Ah." It seemed as though a penny had dropped for him, because his eyes lit up in realisation. "I knew your second name was familiar. Rush. I never met her…"

"That's of little consequence," she replied, folding her arms. _I __didn__'__t __exactly __know __her __either._ "Now do you want to get out of here or what? We've gotta be out of the city before daybreak, or else every survivor in the whole province will be set after you. You might wanna wash some of that sewage off of you as well, because if you go around smelling like that they won't need to _look_ for you; they'll find you with their noses."

He looked down and chuckled. "I think you're right," he murmured, making his way down to the edge of the lake and diving in fully clothed. The water around him turned black as he rubbed at his scales with the flat of his palm and then peeled off his shirt to wash that in water that was a bit deeper. Murz envied his ability to breathe underwater; it meant that he could bypass all the soot that was floating on top.

When he climbed back out of the water he seemed almost dry, save for his clothes; his trousers were still grimy, but more acceptable, and his shirt was clean but darkened by the water. The Orc reached in a pocket and drew out a black hooded cloak. "Take this," she said, offering it to him. "It'll make you seem less… Obvious." While he was the same height as her, the garment swamped him completely, and when he pulled the hood over his face there was no way to even tell which race he was.

"What did they do with Idari?" he asked suddenly.

Murz frowned, and for a moment wondered what he was asking. "I don't know," she admitted. "They sent the dead mages back to the University, and the guards went back to wherever they served… I _think_ they sent the Blades back to Cloud Ruler Temple as well. And as for your little Dunmer… I couldn't say; there were a lot of bodies that were unidentified – they got left in the Arena District for a few days in case anybody came to claim them. There's a big grave there for all the dead combatants, and all the fighters there did a good job of keeping that whole sector in one piece by fending off all those daedra."

"I want to see her."

The battlemage had expected that. "No," she told him firmly. "If you want to be hung on the morrow then _by __all __means_ go back into the City, but if you _really_ believe that your precious Hero wanted you to die just to look at her _corpse_, then you're stupider than I thought you were."

"Then I need to go to Bruma…"

"By Malacath, you're a noble sod." The Orc rolled her eyes. "Whose corpse are you looking for up there? My sister's?" Though it was said in jest, she felt a twinge of loss when she mentioned Rush, even though she had never really known her at all.

"I owe it to Idari to find her brother."

"No." Murz shook her head angrily. "You owe it to her to make it out of this damn province alive! Soon as those guards in the Prison wake up, every law enforcer from here to Akavir will be looking for you! Septimus can only lead them on a wild Kagouti chase for so long, you know."

"Look, I appreciate your concern for me, but I never _asked_ to be saved."

"But you asked that we remember the people who died," she snapped at him viciously. "You're a good speaker; that speech you made touched people, even if they didn't show it. You're the best person this side of Secunda to take the story with them; if you wanted them to be remembered in history, tell of their deeds to the wider provinces! You _lived_it. You lived every moment. Nobody is more qualified than you!"

"I…" he hesitated, obviously considering something. "You want me to leave Cyrodiil?"

Murz nodded gravely. "If you stay here, they will hunt you down and kill you. You don't need to tell us where you go, but you need to keep away."

"But I don't _have_ anywhere to go!" he pleaded, desperate. The Orc wondered if her sister had felt the same thing when she had resolved to leave Orsinium at only twelve years old. "Cyrodiil has been my home for years…"

"I'm sorry," she mumbled weakly, walking slowly towards the stables where a select few horses were waiting in the largely burnt paddock. "One of us would go with you, but with so few soldiers to garrison the city… We'd be noticed and linked to your disappearance."

He pressed his eyes shut tightly as though trying to push away a nightmare; Murz found herself contemplating how much of the recent past he would have to block out to be satisfied. She knew she would go back to the first time she set foot in the Arcane University and seek out her sister and say that she forgave her. But it was too late now. "I was ready to die," he muttered, rubbing his temples.

"You don't want to die like that. It's not a good way to go."

"I deserved it. I murdered somebody."

The battlemage shrugged. "I'd murder someone if I could speak to my sister," she admitted. "But I can't. She's dead. I hated her for leaving me in Orsinium, but I was only four at the time, and what she did was for good reason. She lost everything to keep us safe, and she died bravely. But regretting won't bring her back, and dying won't solve anything…" She coughed deliberately in order to shake the tears from her eyes. "You said that the Hero of Kvatch was your Sister… So you're just like me. You've lost your Sister, and you don't know what to do anymore, so you just regret it and it kills you. Rush left Orsinium to save us, and she died to save that Altmer. Your Hero died to save you. Ending up dead would just be ungrateful."

"At least I knew _your_ sister's name," he growled.

As they reached the stable, she walked over to a black horse and offered him the reins. "Oh, don't fret; I know the Hero's name. You shouted it enough times on the way to the Prison. Half of the City knows her name now – the half that survived. Her name was Idari, and Rush's Altmer was named Seanturco, and I am incredibly grateful to the both of them for what they sacrificed in the battle." She watched as the Argonian tried to haul himself onto the horse and almost fell over the other side before finally establishing his balance. "But I never truly knew either of them. It would be improper of me to act as though I did. That is why I don't use their names."

The one-time hero blinked, and then he smiled wearily. "You're the first person who's ever managed to give me a feasible explanation as to why you don't use their names. Thank you."

"And thank _you_," Murz returned, patting the horse's flank gently as she looked up at him. "Sing of my sister on your travels."

"Murz..." His eyes sparkled. "I'll sing of you." He chuckled softly. "I'll sing of everyone. How could I _not_ sing of your sister? She died because she helped defeat Mannimarco; you tell that to the people in the Arcane University. You tell them that she was strong enough to survive a curse from the King of Worms long enough to face the Battle of Bruma and die valiantly in battle. And I will sing of her… Everywhere I go! And I will sing of her sister, who survived the Battle for the Imperial City and saved thousands of lives in the process!"

His words touched her, though she knew she didn't deserve them. "And we'll sing of you here," she promised him, though she wasn't sure if they would. It would probably be forbidden. "You never told me _your_name…"

The Argonian smirked. "I am just a storyteller," he whispered, taking up the horse's reins and guiding the animal out of the paddock. "And nobody sings of the singers." He put his heels into his mount's flanks and was away at great speed.

In the morning, when he was reported missing and the horse was reported stolen, people would wonder how he escaped. They would see the passageway leading to the sewers and kick themselves. And Septimus Serocold and Murz gra-Yazgash would keep their silence well, quietly singing tales of an Argonian who escaped death by nothing more than a thread while feigning ignorance as to how he avoided the gallows. Nobody would realise the parts they played, nor indeed that of the Grey Fox, whose identity would never truly discovered – though the people of Anvil were somewhat shocked at the return of Count Corvus some ten years after he mysteriously vanished from their lives and their memories, and the people of the Waterfront pondered about how exactly there came to be a house in the city walls that they had all overlooked before.

Murz looked up at the stars and sighed. Secunda was waxing while Masser was waning, and the space between them seemed like a huge black void pitted with darkness. She stole into the city through the nearest gate, shocking the guardsman who had the misfortune of holding this entrance _alone_ at night until more soldiers were recruited or even conscripted.

"Greetings!" he said, a little too quickly. From his franticness, the Orc could tell that he had been sleeping. "You're out late."

She nodded. "I've had trouble sleeping since the battle." While it was a lie, there was some truth to it. Every time she lay down to rest her dreams were filled with scenes of death and her sister's body in a pool of thick black blood. "I went out to sit and think. It's peaceful at this time of night."

The guard seemed to accept that and saluted. He was a young one - one of the youngest to have survived – and had been caught up in the Arena District when the battle began. Lucky, really, since the brawlers there had made light work of the daedra. "Talos guide you," he muttered, attempting to wake himself up.

Murz returned his salute and continued walking. It would have been pleasant to walk the streets at night if not for the scent of burning that still hung here, or the splatters of blood that doused the pavement. Hardly anywhere was unscathed, and while many of the civilians had been evacuated about a day before the action had occurred, the death toll was huge among those who had chosen to stay. But it wasn't another Kvatch. The people of the Imperial City had been expecting it following news of the Battle of Bruma and had armed themselves accordingly; Kvatch had been a tragedy because the citizens were so ill-prepared for the onslaught, even those who had ended up saving lives, but the Imperial City had stood firm and dug their heels in and fought with every fibre of their strength. And they had been victorious.

The Temple District had suffered worst. The task of clearing the rubble was unenviable, but its new addition of a statue of Akatosh brought people from all across the land to witness the final resting place of their great Emperor Martin Septim I. At this time of night, the only person within the ruins of the Temple of the One was a certain Imperial Watch Captain, admiring the stonework from afar as he waited for a battlemage to meet him there, sitting casually on one block of stone that had fallen.

"Murz!" he exclaimed, standing and crossing the room briskly. "I take it everything went according to plan."

The Orc chuckled. "I sent him on his way, but he's so noble I wouldn't be surprised if we hear of him being apprehended on his way to Bruma in order to search for bodies in the mud."

"He's a good lad," Serocold nodded. "Hanging is such a horrible way to go."

"How did you get him out?"

The guardsman laughed. "I didn't have to!" He beckoned her closer. "When I got off duty this afternoon I was approached by a cloaked figure who claimed that they wished to help him too and would deal with getting him from his cell to the sewers. The Grey Fox… I heard there was a Watchman looking for the Grey Fox a while ago, but he got transferred to Anvil about two weeks ago; lucky man, if you ask me, but he missed his big moment to apprehend the scoundrel."

"So you let the Grey Fox free a prisoner convicted of murder from the Imperial Prison?" Murz was incredulous.

Again, Septimus could only laugh. "Well who better?" he posed to her. The battlemage had to admit that he had a point. "Someone who is skilled at sneaking in and out of places undetected… Someone who is good at picking locks… Though, if the Prison is short a few silver jugs tomorrow I wouldn't be surprised. It's amazing the entire Prison District escaped damage."

"Well, most of Dagon's fury was focussed on the Temple District, wasn't it?" she pointed out, gazing up at the head of the dragon that was framed in only blackness. "The Market District only lost the buildings nearest to Green Emperor Way because a fireball brought a wall down on them. The Elven Gardens District didn't suffer much either… The Arboretum just _burned_ and Talos Plaza just collapsed in a few places. This is the place that took most of the damage, along with the Palace grounds. The Prison was far enough outside to escape… The University survived intact too – though that was Polus' magical defences, and the Waterfront only had a little damage."

The Imperial had to agree and then lapsed into quiet contemplation. "You know," he said after a moment. "I really wonder where he'll go…" he sighed.

Murz nodded gravely. "Hopefully somewhere far away," she mused. "Or all our efforts will have been for nothing."

xxx

The wind rustled her hair as she stood in the soft morning breeze gazing towards the place that had once been her home. The Red Mountain had taken that from them when it had spewed forth its ash and debris, unwillingly saving them from the daedra who had followed soon afterwards. Still, Farusea Mortha did not thank the volcano for forcing them from their home on Sadrith Mora to this pathetic camp a little way outside of Mournhold. The Blades had brought them here, for a reason she would never understand; just her and her husband out of a whole town of people who were slowly starving. The others had followed, but they had not been fetched.

Elvas was sleeping in the small tent. He slept more and more these days, and even when he awoke it was clear that he could not find peace. His mind wandered like that of a man twice his age and there were days when he could not even recognise his wife. Farusea would stay with him though; no matter what else happened, she would be loyal to her husband until they both drew their final breaths.

She licked her lips and tasted salt. _Ash_. The ash was coming down in torrents these days, but at least it gave the refugees some little warning to get inside their crude homes and close the tent flaps tightly. The Dunmer did not move though, other than to secure her husband within his sleeping cocoon and stare longingly towards the sea again.

On Sadrith Mora she had hated it. The water all around them, lapping towards their mushroom houses like a hungry dog seeking food. Now she missed it. They had not seen water in quantities any larger than that within a waterskin since the evacuation. It was probably for the best though, with the ash floating around.

Farusea pulled a sash of cloth from a satchel at her waist and used it to cover her nose and mouth, feeding it over her brown hair until only her crimson eyes were visible. At least now she would be able to breathe easily when the storms came.

It was times like these when she wondered what had become of her two youngest children. Elvas had pushed their eldest son Sadas too hard in his ascent through House Telvanni, but the boy had lacked the subtlety or even the raw ability to reach such heights; a simple slip of the tongue and a poorly produced Shield had spelt death upon him only a short while after his twenty-fifth name day. His mother's heart still ached for him after some five years; she had begged her husband to leave him be, _pleaded_ with him, but the Dark Elf was losing his mind and had not taken heed. Idari and Reron had both vanished into the night and never come home. Farusea still told herself that if she waited for them long enough they would return to her forever. She would tell Idari that she didn't have to marry anymore if she would only stay, and she would forbid Elvas from doing to little Reron what he had done to Sadas before him. Perhaps the ache for the sea she felt was the knowledge that even if they now returned home they would not find their parents.

Her heart was so confused these days that she could not even tell whether she was waiting for her children to come back to her or waiting for their deaths to be reported. They could be anywhere on Nirn by now…

She shook her head to expel the thought and surveyed their small camp. There had been more than thirty tents here originally, but now half of them were empty due to disease or starvation, and some people had moved on like they had somewhere else to go. Mournhold did not want them there during this time of great crisis; King Helseth had sent them away as just another group of mouths to feed.

Farusea frowned. If her ninety years had told her anything, it was that people were resourceful and could survive through anything. A local inn had offered them one meal a day and a plot of land upon which to make their thrown-together civilization and a healer from Mournhold had visited them to quell the spread of illness that had been like wildfire just a few short months ago. The people who had made it this far would survive this crisis; of that, the Dunmer was completely certain.

For want of a better way to pass her time, the woman picked her way between the dusty canvas hovels in the direction of the small inn at the side of the road. It wasn't an elaborate place; the ground floor was made of stone and the upper floor boarded in wood that was rotting slowly so that much of it was open to the elements and collecting ash that was weighing down the ceiling of the room beneath it. Nobody slept in this inn anymore - that much was obvious - and the proprietor had been kept open by travellers along this well-trodden track and a wealthy aunt who had lived in Vivec before the Ministry of Truth had fallen on the city. She was dead now, and her only living heir was having trouble staying afloat. The man was too kindly to send the refugees away though, and was funding their food from his own pocket and what little he had seen of his aunt's vast fortune before she got herself crushed by a hollowed out moon.

The innkeeper was a tall and thin Imperial with sharp features and only one eye from an encounter with a cliff racer when he had been a boy. He had been born and bred in the Legion until his accident had left him half-blind and for want of anything better to do had set up an inn in the outskirts of Mournhold. The scars were still there, flush against the right side of his face with angry red lines and scored their way down his cheek; he was a young man, though, and if the other eye was anything to go by, his lost organ would have been a faint green colour. He wore a strip of cloth over his eye socket to prevent himself from shocking his customers, and his long sandy blond hair was pulled into a ponytail.

"Good morning," he said brightly as she entered, squinting through the semi-darkness with his good eye. "Ash storms rolling in today?"

Farusea said nothing, but nodded and unwrapped her head scarf to reveal her identity. She did not know the man's name, but neither did she see fit to pry.

"Are you alright? Do you need anything?"

The Dunmer shook her head. "No, thank you," she replied flatly. Almost all of the emotion had gone from her the day she had awoken to find her daughter gone, her very last child. She missed them…

"Just sheltering from the storm, huh?" the man asked her colloquially. "I guess most people would do the same if they had a chance. Those tents don't look up to much."

"Our tents will suffice."

"Yes, but for how long?"

The woman sighed and walked to the small fireplace. It was empty, and so full of ash that it was almost as if somebody had been using it to host a bonfire. "We do not intend to be here forever," she informed the innkeeper. She had at least a century ahead of her yet and she was not going to die in some refugee camp outside of Mournhold. "We will leave when the ash stops coming. Or when we have outstayed our welcome."

"You may stay as long as you wish. I couldn't turn people away to die."

"Then you would make a better King than Helseth." Her tone was expressionless and dead, but sincere all the same. Farusea Mortha was not a woman who said anything she did not mean wholeheartedly.

It was the clatter of hooves that startled her. There were no horses on Vvardenfell, so just the mere thought of the animals being on the mainland had taken some getting used to, but there were never travellers come through this early in the morning. The sound stopped abruptly just outside the inn and then the rider dismounted, probably pausing a moment to tie the animal up before entering.

The Argonian who opened the door was dressed almost head-to-toe in leather, with a hood that shielded his face from view and a basic wooden bow rolled up and pushed into a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. He looked about quickly to take in his surroundings before addressing the innkeeper: "I was told that the refugees here came from Vvardenfell," he stated, though he posed it as a question.

Nodding, the Imperial replied: "Yes, they came from…" He paused, uncertain, glancing to Farusea for the answer.

"Sadrith Mora," she said coldly, with a twinge of loss for her home once again.

The newcomer gaped in shock for a few moments. "That is certainly a twist of fate," he muttered under his breath, his voice coming out in long lizard-like hisses that made the Dark Elf shudder. She despised Argonians; they were good for nothing except slaves. "I… I am looking for… The family of…" He paused and turned to the woman. She caught a glimpse of golden eyes beneath his hood. "Perhaps you can help me…" he pondered aloud. "I am looking for the family of Idari Mortha."

Farusea stepped backwards in shock and felt her back press against the wall. "Why?" she demanded, a small ray of hope glimmering in her soul before flickering out and dying.

"I have… er…" He stopped again, as though he didn't know how to phrase what he wanted to say. "I have some news about her… And about Reron Mortha… I need to speak with her… with her parents."

Blinking in astonishment, the Dunmer did not speak. _This __lizard __knows __of __my __children_… She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she maintained her stoic exterior.

"And about the Oblivion Crisis," he continued warily. "Did you know that it is over?"

"We had heard rumours," the innkeeper said. "Can you confirm it?" He leant heavily on the counter he was standing behind, causing it to shriek in protest.

The Argonian nodded. "I was there." There was a great sadness in his words associated with the Oblivion Crisis, Farusea could tell.

"What about my chi-" She stopped herself. "What of the Mortha children?"

"Your…?" He gasped. "You're Idari's mother!" he exclaimed. "I… I… She…"

"Tell me of my children," she stipulated icily.

Instead, he screwed up his eyes and said nothing for a minute that felt almost five times as long. "No. First I must tell of the Oblivion Crisis." He continued before the woman could object. "You probably heard the tales of how the Crisis started when Uriel Septim was murdered by the Mythic Dawn. The first Oblivion gate opened outside a city called Kvatch and the daedra sacked it mercilessly, killing thousands upon thousands of people in order to put an end to a priest named Martin who was, as it turned out, Uriel's illegitimate son. When all hope seemed lost for Kvatch, a hero appeared who closed the gate shut forever and saved them before Martin could be killed; they became known as the Hero of Kvatch. The Hero of Kvatch did a great many things for Martin after taking him to Cloud Ruler Temple, the stronghold of the Blades, including appeasing Daedric Princes, searching heavily enchanted Ayleid ruins, battling with ancient lichs and running through the Great Gate of Bruma during what was easily the battle for Tamriel in order to collect a Great Sigil Stone. The Hero of Kvatch ran through Mankar Camoran's Paradise in order to retrieve the Amulet of Kings that were needed to light the Dragonfires and banish Mehrunes Dagon forever, and there they almost died from a slit throat caused at their own hand against a Reflect Damage enchantment; a selfless sacrifice. Finally the Hero of Kvatch travelled with Martin to the Imperial City to fight against Dagon Himself in an epic battle in which Martin sacrificed his own blood to the power of Akatosh in order to summon the Avatar of Akatosh that killed Mehrunes Dagon with its powerful jaws. The Hero did not survive…"

"What does this have to do with my children?" Farusea snapped viciously at him, her hands clenching into fists.

The Argonian smiled weakly. "Your daughter was an awful lot like you…" he mused to himself. "I knew her well. She was a friend. A good friend."

"_Was_?" This time her stoic exterior crumbled and her voice shook with anguish.

With a face set like stone, the leather-clad stranger simply said: "The Hero of Kvatch was called Idari Mortha."

She slapped him. He didn't react.

"She was a great woman…" Tears were welling in Farusea's crimson eyes and she barely heard his pitiful attempts at comforting her. "One of the best. I wish…" There was water in his eyes too, streaking down his green scales. "I wish _I_ had died there rather than her. She was…"

The Dunmer crumbled and her sobs rent the air. _Another __child_. _Another __death __I __could __have __prevented_. The pain in her chest was greater than anything she had felt before, like a white hot knife had been plunged straight into her heart and twisted. "And what of Reron?" she managed between gasps her air.

Wiping his eyes, the lizard spoke once more: "Reron Mortha was afflicted with vampirism before he left his home to seek shelter in a coven…" _You __didn__'__t __have __to __go, __Reron, __we __wouldn__'__t __have __thought __any __differently __of __you__…_ Reron had been her youngest, barely grown when he had left without even so much as a note. "His sister found a cure for him in Cyrodiil and it was delivered by the member of the Blades a short time after Red Mountain erupted. Reron was resentful of the cure, but agreed to fight alongside his sister in the Battle of Bruma. Nobody has seen him since."

The knife was withdrawn and stabbed into her again, more viciously this time and with more malice. _All __three__…_ _All __three __of __my __darling __children__…_ She sobbed again and wept and curled up in a ball on the dusty floor as if to shut out the world. Ninety years and she had never felt anguish like this, not even when Sadas had died. "My… My…" she tried, but she couldn't manage it for her body's shaking.

"They died heroes." _As __if __that __was __any __consolation __to __a __mother __who __had __just __found __out __that __two __of __her __children __had __run __away __and __been __killed_. "They died to save us all."

"_Get __out!_" she screeched at the bearer of the bad news between shrieks of pain and sadness and anger and a million other emotions that all assaulted her simultaneously, drowning out everything so that she felt almost numb. "_If __you __ever __come __back __I__'__ll __kill __you_."

He said nothing and left.

She never saw him again.

* * *

_Author note: It is with a heavy heart I post this... The very, very, very last chapter... I'll miss this thing. Supremely._

_Random clarification: Turner went to Morrowind via Cheydinhal. This is how he's in leathers again, if you wondered._

**Random Shootist**_: Sorry! I didn't mean to deprive you of sleep! I think this chapter being here answers your epilogue question... :P_

**I refuse**_: Not the Dark Brotherhood, no XD_

_Well, for the very last time... Thanks. Please review vvv_

_~ARTY~_

_P.S. There is now a sequel to this story called **One By One**. Check it out if you're interested. Also, ever wonder how the Nine Divines came to choose the heroes in this story? Check out **Darkness**. (Sorry for the shameless advertising XD)_


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